IRTftUR 


VEYSEY 


. 


A  CHEQUE 

FOR  THREE  THOUSAND. 

"It's  a  jolly  good  story  Mr.  Arthur  Henry  Veysey 
writes."—  New  York  Times. 

"  Much  to  be  commended.  Many  people  will  enjoy 
it." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"Abounds  in  deliciously  funny  situations." — New 
York  Churchman. 

"A  capital  story." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  Bright  and  clever." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  An  unusually  original  novel." —  Washington  Post. 

"  So  brisk  and  breezy  is  the  dialogue  and  so  clever  are 
the  situations  that  the  book  is  decidedly  interesting." — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

1 '  Dramatic,  full  of  life  and  action,  it  is  a  brilliant 
farce  from  end  to  end." — Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

"  Written  with  vivacity  and  dash." — Detroit  Free 
Press. 

"  A  series  of  laughable  experiences  with  a  clever  cli- 
max."— Boston  Beacon. 

"  One  of  the  most  amusing  stories  we  have  read  for 
a  long  while." — Boston  Times. 

"  It  will  be  mentioned  many  a  time  by  one  who  reads 
it  when  he  wants  to  relate  something  novel  and  odd 
among  his  friends.'' — Toledo  Blade. 

"  Plenty  of  fun  of  a  good  clean  order,  with  life  and 
vivacity  enough  to  draw  a  recluse  out  of  his  cell." — St. 
Louis  Despatch. 

"  It  fulfills  Mr.  Crawford's  requirement  that  a  novel 
should  be  a  little  pocket  theatre.  The  pages  effervesce 
with  life  and  good  spirits." — Clara  Louise  Burnham, 
author  of  "  Next  Door"  etc.,  etc. 

"  As  interesting  as  a  bright  comedy — twice  so  ;  for 
when  you've  read  it  once,  you  read  it  again." — Edward 
W.  Townsend,  author  of  "  Chimmie  Fadden"  etc. 


CLOTH  BOUND.  PRICE  $1.00. 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  CO. 

Publishers,  N.  Y. 


A  PEDIGREE  IN  PAWN. 


In  the  New  York  Times,  "  Saturday  Review  of  Books  and 
Art,"  June  25th,  1898,  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  the  best 
books  adapted  for  summer  reading  were  selected  out  of  some 
four  thousand.  Mr.  Arthur  Henry  Veysey's  "  A  Pedigree  in 
Pawn  "  was  included  in  this  list. 

"  It  is  a  cleverly  grotesque  story.  It  will  keep  the  reader 
in  a  constant  state  of  mirth."— TV.  Y.  Times. 

"A  funny  story — well  conceived  and  well  executed. 
There  is  much  clever  dialogue  and  any  number  of  amusing 
situations." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  people  who  will  enjoy  laughing  at 
it  for  its  many  genuinely  funny  situations." — N.  Y.  Commer- 
cial Advertiser. 

' '  A  delightful  and  diverting  story.  Its  tone  is  vigorously 
American,  and  it  is  filled  with  scenes  of  rich  and  irresistible 
comedy  of  the  kind  Americans  love.  We  predict  a  large 
measure  of  popularity  for  the  book." — Philadelphia  Item. 

"Irresistibly  amusing,  and  evinces  not  only  a  rare  fresh- 
ness of  conception,  but  an  equally  rare  quality  of  dramatic 
execution." — Boston  Ideas. 

"The  grotesque  rencontres  are  extremely  funny." — Bos- 
ton Courier. 

"  The  story  has  life  and  snap.  It  deals  with  the  subject 
which  has  given  Charles  Dana  Gibson  the  groundwork  of 
many  of  his  drawings  in  '  Life  ' — the  willingness  of  the  Amer- 
ican heiress  to  buy  with  her  father's  hard  earned  fortune 
aristocratic  titles  and  ancient  estates." — Boston  Times. 

"A  very  amusing  story,  crowded  with  incident.  The 
development  of  the  plot  is  most  skillfully  accomplished." — 
Toledo  Blade. 

"Written  purely  to  amuse  in  an  admirable  comedy  vein. 
It  is  a  school  for  humbug." — Detroit  Tribune. 

"A  Pedigree  in  Pawn"  is  a  highly  diverting  comedy  for 
an  audience  of  one  ;  and  it  will  be  very  surprising  if  the  suc- 
cess of  Mr.  Veysey's  first  volume  is  not  duplicated  and  even 
amplified.  The  story  can  be  commended  at  all  times  as  an 
eradication  of  the  blues.  Its  spontaniety  is  irresistible. — 
Kansas  City  Times. 

"Mr.  Veysey's  mode  of  expression  shows  the  spirit  and 
faculty  of  an  artist.  His  manner  of  developing  an  idea  and 
leading  up  to  a  situation  is  boldly  dramatic  and  of  fascinating 
originality." — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

Cloth  Bound,  $1.25, 
G.  W.  DELLINGHAM  CO,,  Publishers, 

NEW  YORK. 


THE 

TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS 


BY 

ARTHUR  HENRY  VEYSEY 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  CHEQUE  FOR  THREE  THOUSAND  "  AND 
"A  PEDIGREE  IN  PAWN  " 


NEW    YORK 

COPVRIGMT,    18.1,    BY 

G.      W.    Dillingham     Co.,    Publishers 

MDCCCXCIX 
[All  rights  reserved] 


CONTENTS. 


CHAITHR 


I.  "  By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow  7 

II.  They  View  the  Elephant        ...     23 

III.  Castles  in  Spain 38 

IV.  The  Elephant  is  Groomed    .        .        .54 
V.  Mr.  Coxe,  the  Dyspeptic        ...     62 

VI.  What  Shall  be  Done  with  Mr.  Coxe  ?     75 

VII.  His  First  Edition  .        .        .        .88 

VIII.  Mr.  Coxe  is  Sent  to  Bed        ...    99 

IX.  A  Very  Small  Philanthropist         .         .no 

X.  "Mister  Textore  Kised  Francess"       .  117 

XI.  The  Three  Mince  Pies  .        .        .129 

XII.  Jeremiah  Coxe  on  the  Rampage  .  145 

XIII.  The  Elephant  is  Off  Their  Hands         .  153 

XIV.  "  The  Little  Booming  Squad  "       .        .170 
XV.  Textor's  Third  Edition       .    .        .        .184 

XVI.  A  Novelist  Unmanned  .        .        .196 

XVII.  Miss  Ruth  to  the  Rescue        .        .        .212 
XVIII.  "Mister      Textore      Kised     Francess 

Againe  "  .....  225 

isJ 


O^/^^'O' 


THE 

TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS, 


CHAPTER  I. 

"BY  THE  SWEAT  OF  HIS  BROW." 

"Do  you  think,  sister,  that  we  should  offer  him 
breakfast?"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  doubtfully. 

"By  all  means,"  agreed  Miss  Elsie,  "though  he  does 
not  appear  to  be  very  hungry.  Is  it  not  inspiring, 
Ruth,  to  watch  him  shovel  that  snow?  How  vigorous 
he  is,  and  strong!" 

"One  might  think  that  he  were  shoveling  it  simply 
for  exercise,"  cried  Miss  Ruth,  enthusiastically.  "I 
am  correct,  Elsie,  in  saying  that  never  before  has  so 
respectable  a  young  man  shoveled  snow  off  our  front 
steps?" 


8  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"Never.  And  you  have  noticed  that  he  wears  eye- 
glasses? You  have  observed  that,  Ruth?" 

The  two  sisters  regarded  attentively  in  a  puzzled 
silence  the  athletic  young  man  without,  who,  quite 
unconscious  that  he  was  an  object  of  curiosity  and 
interest  to  the  two  gentle  old  ladies  watching  him 
from  the  drawing-room  window,  was  resting  for  a 
moment  from  his  labors,  looking  with  intense  satis- 
faction at  the  steps  and  sidewalk  nearly  cleared  from 
snow. 

"When  he  rings  the  basement  bell  for  his  quarter  of 
a  dollar,  I  shall  ask  him  about  himself.  He  interests 
me  very  much.  There  is  something  quite  respectable 
about  his  manner.  Actually,  I  was  going  to  say  he 
looked  like  a  gentleman." 

"Oh,  he  is  a  gentleman,"  declared  Miss  Elsie, 
breathlessly.  "I  am  sure  of  it.  We  must  be  very 
careful  not  to  hurt  his  feelings,  sister.  There!  He  is 
ringing  the  bell  now." 

When  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  Fairfax  entered 
the  kitchen,  he  was  standing  by  the  range,  an  object 
of  admiration  to  Eliza  the  cook,  who  whispered  to 
the  chambermaid  that  he  was  a  very  genteel  young 
person. 


"BY   THE   SWEAT  OF   HIS   BROW."  '  9 

"You  have  finished  your  work?"  asked  Miss  Ruth, 
a  little  severely. 

The  young  man  bowed. 

"I  trust  to  your  satisfaction,  madame." 

"Oh,  perfectly — perfectly."  Miss  Elsie  beamed 
through  her  spectacles.  "You  have  done  it  very  thor- 
oughly, indeed.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  earn  many 
quarters  if  you  are  always  so  conscientious." 

He  wiped  his  eye-glasses  with  a  clean  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, but  he  gave  Miss  Elsie  no  information  on  this 
point. 

"Here  is  your  money,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  holding  out 
the  coin  to  him.  "I  trust  that  you  will  not  spend  it  in 
drink." 

"Oh,  you  will  promise  us  that,  will  you  not?"  cried 
Miss  Elsie,  earnestly.  "I  feel  quite  sure  that  you  have 
not  always  been  accustomed  to  shovel  snow  off  peo- 
ple's doorsteps  for  a  livelihood." 

The  young  man  laughed  heartily. 

"Oh,  you  need  have  no  fear  of  that,"  he  promised. 
"I  do  not  drink  at  all.  I  am  sorry  I  look  so  dissi- 
pated." 

"You  do  not  look  so  at  all,"  declared  Miss  Ruth, 


IO  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

deliberately.  "Please  do  not  think  me  rude,  but  have 
you  met  ill-fortune  that  you  are  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity of  earning  your  living  by  your  hands?  Not,"  she 
added  hastily,  "that  there  is  anything  to  be  ashamed 
of  in  that." 

The  young  man  hesitated. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  to  trust  us,"  said  Miss 
Ruth,  persuasively.  "There  is  nothing  for  you  to  fear 
if  you  tell  the  truth,  and  are  honest." 

"No,  indeed,"  added  Miss  Elsie  with  warmth. 
"My  sister  and  myself  are  greatly  interested  in  philan- 
thropic work;  and  we  shall  be  glad  to  be  of  service 
to  you  if  we  find  that  you  are  deserving." 

"There  is  really  no  reason  why  I  should  not  tell 
you,  I  suppose,  if  you  are  interested  to  know,"  he  said. 
"But  I  am  afraid  that  my  story  may  tax  your  creduli- 
ty. And  I  don't  need  any  assistance,  thank  you.  I 
am  shoveling  snow  off  people's  doorsteps  simply  be- 
cause I  wish  to  know  how  much  a  man  who  shovels 
snow,  for  instance,  can  earn  in  a  day.  I  have  been  a 
street-car  conductor  and  a  hotel-porter  for  the  same 
reason.  I  wish  to  know  how  such  people  live;  how 
people  treat  them;  how  difficult  it  is  for  them  to  earn 


"BY   THE   SWEAT   OF   HIS   BROW."  II 

a  living.  You  see,  I  can  learn  all  that  accurately  only 
by  earning  a  precarious  living  myself." 

"We  are  deeply  interested,"  cried  Miss  Ruth.  "Is 
it  necessary  that  you  earn  more  quarters  immediately, 
or  can  you  sacrifice  the  earning  of  one  or  two  while 
you  tell  us  just  why  you  desire  to  know  all  that?" 

"I  happen  to  be  writing  a  novel  with  a  purpose.  It 
has  to  do  mostly  with  the  problems  of  capital  and 
labor.  It  is  to  be  called  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow.' 
The  hero  is  a  laboring  man,  who  often  has  no  work, 
and,  therefore,  sometimes  goes  to  bed  hungry.  If  I 
am  to  describe  his  life  accurately,  I  must  live  the  life 
he  is  supposed  to  have  lived;  if  necessary,  I  must  go 
to  bed  hungry  myself.  You  see  it  is  very  simple." 

The  Misses  Fairfax  exchanged  glances  of  approval. 

"Will  you  not  be  seated,  sir?"  asked  Miss  Ruth, 
with  respect.  "You  must  be  a  very  conscientious 
literary  man,  it  seems  to  me.  I  should  think  that  if 
novelists  were  always  so  anxious  to  be  realistic,  they 
would  write  fewer  but  more  helpful  books." 

"Yes,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Miss  Elsie,  cordially. 
"But  I  feel  sure,  sir,  you  are  writing  your  book  not 
merely  to  cater  to  the  amusement  of  the  idle  and 


12  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

frivolous.  You  have  a  message  for  the  world,  unless  I 
am  very  much  mistaken." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly  through  her  spectacles. 

"That  is  true.  You  see,  I  have  always  been  inter- 
ested in  economic  questions.  I  have  written  a  paper 
or  two.  My  name  is  Textor — Richard  Bryce  Tex- 
tor." 

"Surely,  not  the  Textor  who  wrote  that  splendid 
pamphlet  on  the  sweating  system?"  asked  Miss  Ruth 
with  surprise. 

"I  am  honored  that  you  have  read  it,"  answered  the 
author,  much  gratified.  "And  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to 
ask  your  own  names,  or  is  that  an  impertinence  for  a 
snow-shoveler  ?" 

"It  is  not  an  impertinence  for  you,  Mr.  Textor.  I 
am  Miss  Ruth  Fairfax.  This  is  my  sister,  Miss  Elsie 
Fairfax.  I  am  afraid  you  will  not,  however,  recognize 
our  names." 

"But  I  do,"  replied  the  novelist,  warmly.  "Every- 
body in  New  York  who  is  interested  in  the  condition 
of  the  poor  has  heard  of  your  noble  services  and  gen- 
erous charities — especially  your  determined  efforts  to 
do  away  with  indiscriminate  giving  and  the  senti- 


"BY   THE   SWEAT   OF   HIS   BROW."  13 

mental  bequests  of  well-meaning  but  foolish  philan- 
thropists. Your  little  book,  The  Mistakes  of  Phi- 
lanthropists,' is  a  gem  of  clear  and  vigorous  reason- 
ing." 

"It  is  very  gratifying  to  hear  praise  from  an  expert 
like  yourself,  Mr.  Textor,"  murmured  Miss  Ruth,  a 
delicate  flush  on  either  cheek.  "And  may  I  ask  how 
far  your  novel  is  toward  completion?" 

"I  have  been  working  at  it  for  many  months  now. 
It  is  about  half  finished." 

"And  you  think  that  a  novel  will  accomplish  more 
good  than  a  treatise?"  queried  Miss  Elsie. 

"Yes;  I  am  inclined  to  think  so.  You  must  know  as 
well  as  myself  that  a  dry  lecture  or  an  unattractive 
treatise  that  is  largely  made  up  of  statistics  really 
reaches  comparatively  few  people.  Even  those  few 
are  generally  already  interested.  I  wish  to  reach  the 
idle  rich,  who  might  do  so  much  if  they  were  once 
aroused.  I  hope  and  believe  that  a  novel  will  gain 
an  entrance  into  a  lady's  boudoir  when  a  treatise  would 
be  frowned  upon." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  that,"  said  Miss 
Ruth, 


14  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Besides,"  continued  Textor,  "I  cannot  make  a  live- 
lihood by  writing  tracts,  you  know;  nor,"  he  added, 
smiling,  "do  I  wish  to  earn  it  always  by  snow-shovel- 
ing. I  have  just  been  graduated  from  the  Columbia 
School  of  Law.  I  have  no  liking  for  the  law,  how- 
ever. Though  it  is  against  my  father's  wishes — he 
thinks  my  plan  quite  Quixotic — I  am  going  to  write 
for  one  year.  If  at  the  end  of  that  time,  I  am  a  failure 
as  a  novelist,  I  suppose  that  I  shall  have  to  practise 
law.  My  writing  is  an  experiment.  That  is  all." 

"But  it  is  not  all,"  cried  Miss  Ruth  energetically. 
"It  is  only  the  beginning.  Your  novel  will  be  a  bomb 
cast  into  the  midst  of  society.  It  will  arouse  the  slug- 
gish; it  will  urge  the  indifferent  into  action.  I  am 
quite  sure  you  speak  as  one  having  authority,  because 
you  have  lived  the  life  of  your  hero.  You  remember 
the  saying,  'First  live  and  then  write.'  Your  book  must 
bear  the  impress  of  truth.  It  must  succeed." 

"I  should  like  to  think  so,"  said  the  novelist,  mod- 
estly. "But  you  must  remember,  you  know,  that  it 
is  not  yet  written,  much  less  accepted  by  a  publisher." 

"But  it  will  be.  It  will  be.  I  feel  sure  of  it.  And 
oh,  I  do  trust"  (Miss  Elsie  clasped  her  hands  eagerly 


"BY  THE   SWEAT   OF   HIS   BROW."  15 

in  her  earnestness)  "that  you  will  show  the  world  the 
terrible  evils  of  careless,  misdirected  charity.  Show 
the  world,  Mr.  Textor,  the  mistakes  of  philanthrop- 
ists, and  a  future  generation  will  arise  and  call  you 
blessed.  Show  how  ignorant  these  so-called  philan- 
thropists are;  how  all  their  feeble  efforts  towards  al- 
leviating the  world's  suffering  must  be  useless  until 
they  humble  themselves  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  ex- 
perts— until  they  receive  definite,  systematic  instruc- 
tion." 

Miss  Ruth  had  been  walking  swiftly  to  and  fro  in 
evident  agitation.  At  the  last  words  of  her  sister,  she 
turned: 

"That  is  it;  they  must  learn  of  experts — experts  like 
yourself,  Mr.  Textor.  But,  oh,  experts  are  so  rare! 
And  now  that  we  have  been  so  providentially  directed 
to  yourself,  we  claim  you.  Yes;  we  claim  you.  You 
must  help  us.  You  dare  not;  you  cannot  with  a  clear 
conscience,  refuse." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  assist  you  in  any  way  that  lies 
in  my  power,"  said  the  astonished  author  of  "By  the 
Sweat  of  His  Brow."  "But,  really,  I  fail  to  see  in 
just  what  manner," 


l6  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Mr.  Textor,"  replied  Miss  Ruth,  gesticulating  ve- 
hemently, and  walking  to  and  fro  from  the  pantry  door 
to  the  coal-bin,  "as  you  have  said — as  you  doubtless 
know — my  sister  and  myself  have  been  grieved, 
deeply  grieved,  at  the  utter  lack  of  system  that  gen- 
erally characterizes  those  who  found  colleges,  bufld 
hospitals,  support  indigent  widows  and  what-not. 
We  have  for  years  fought  against  capricious  chari- 
ties. We  have  probed  beneath  the  surface,  and  we  have 
laid  ruthlessly  bare — much  as  it  has  pained  us  to  do 
so — the  motives  that  prompt  these  charities.  We  have 
laid  bare  the  self-love,  the  vulgar  desire  for  notoriety 
that  lurks  beneath.  We  have  seen  the  childish  im- 
pulsiveness that  too  often  disfigures  so-called  chari- 
ties. Yes;  we  have  seen  these  serpents  lurking  be- 
neath— the  thirst  for  notoriety.  We  know  from  bitter 
observation  that  careless  benefactions  often  do  more 
harm  than  good.  Because  they  are  too  often  badly 
planned,  carelessly  administered,  impulsively  gov- 
erned. And  why  does  this  lamentable  state  of  affairs 
exist?  Because  the  benefactor  is,  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  ignorant  of  fundamental  economic  principles. 
Mr.  Textor,  we  have,  after  years  of  careful  investiga- 


"BY  THE  SWEAT  OF  HIS  BROW."  I/ 

tion,  decided  that  things  will  be  no  better  until  some 
one  assumes  the  responsibility  of  instructing  these 
benefactors.  We  have  implored  others  to  do  so. 
They  have  refused  the  responsibility.  Very  well.  Are 
the  philanthropists,  then,  still  to  grovel  in  the  slime  of 
ignorance?  By  no  means.  Instructed  they  must 
and  shall  be!  I  say  they  shall  be  instructed!  I  am 
sure  of  this  because  my  sister  and  myself  are  about  to 
supply  that  instruction." 

Textor  listened  to  this  tempestuous  flood  of  elo- 
quence in  some  astonishment.  He  felt  that  he  ought 
to  say  something  at  this  juncture,  and  so  he  said,  with 
great  conviction,  "Good;  very  good." 

"We  are  about  to  supply  that  instruction,"  repeated 
Miss  Ruth,  encouraged  by  the  ejaculation  and  her  sis- 
ter's approving  glances.  "We  are  about  to  open  a 
School  for  Philanthropists  ourselves." 

"Ourselves!"  rapturously  echoed  Miss  Elsie. 

"This  school,"  continued  Miss  Ruth,  with  an  air  ir- 
repressibly  business-like,  "is  to  be  no  place  for  theor- 
ists. It  is  to  be  practical — wholly  so.  Philanthropists 
who  attend — and  we  do  not  for  a  moment  hesitate  that 
many  will  eagerly  avail  themselves  of  the  precious 


18  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

privilege — will  be  thoroughly  made  acquainted  with 
all  the  latest  methods  peculiar  to  the  establishment 
and  wise  government  of  each  and  every  charitable  in- 
stitution— old  ladies'  homes,  colleges,  town  fountains, 
monuments,  and  asylums  for  orphans.  Actual  ex- 
periments will  be  carried  on  in  a  small  scale.  Under 
the  humble  guidance  of  my  sister  and  myself,  the 
female  philanthropists  will  have  a  thorough  insight 
into  the  conducting  of  cooking  schools,  sewing  circles, 
mothers'  meetings,  day  nurseries,  and  bands  of  mercy. 
The  male  philanthropists,  under  competent  guidance, 
will  investigate  the  sweating  system.  They  will  pry 
into  the  machinations  of  the  middle  man;  they  will  be 
on  the  watch  to  smell  out  bad  drains;  to  pounce  upon 
landlords  of  crowded  tenements;  to  raise  the  voice  of 
protest  against  bloated  monopolies.  In  short,  both 
males  and  females  will  put  into  actual  practice  the  lec- 
tures delivered  to  them  at  the  school." 

"But,"  exclaimed  Miss  Elsie,  mournfully,  "who  is 
to  conduct  the  experiments  and  the  investigations  of 
the  males — that  is  the  question?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Textor;  that  is  the  question  that  troubles 
us,"  continued  Miss  Ruth,  vigorously.  "We  have  in- 


"BY   THE   SWEAT  OF  HIS  BROW."  19 

terviewed  professors  of  political  economy;  we  have 
seen  preachers;  we  have  advertised  for  authors.  We 
have  found  them  all  impractical." 

"And  therefore  useless,"  concluded  Miss  Elsie. 

"On  the  other  hand,  the  walking  delegates  and  the 
master  plumbers  and  the  union-labor  leaders  are  too 
densely  ignorant." 

"Not  to  say  ill-bred,"  interrupted  Miss  Elsie. 

"Precisely.  One  who  is  by  birth  a  gentleman,  who 
is  fitted  by  education  to  look  at  things  calmly,  and  yet 
has  a  practical  knowledge  of  the  masses — such  a  man 
we  have  failed  to  discover  until  to-day." 

"Until  to-day,"  repeated  Miss  Elsie,  nodding  her 
head  with  great  conviction. 

"Mr.  Textor,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.  Provi- 
dence has  directed  us  to  you — or,  rather,  you  to  us. 
You  are  the  man." 

"I?"  cried  the  novelist,  shrinking  back,  somewhat 
embarrassed. 

Miss  Elsie  stretched  out  her  hands  imploringly. 

"You  are  not  going  to  refuse  us?  Surely,  you  will 
not  be  so  cruel?  You  will  have  more  conscience  than 
that.  You  dare  not  refuse  us,  Mr.  Textor!" 


20  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"If  you  do,"  said  Miss  Ruth  sternly,  "your  protes- 
tations will  be  hollow  mockery,  sir.  Besides,  we  offer 
you  a  glorious  opportunity.  You  cannot  fill  your 
novel  with  workingmen  alone.  You  must  have  the 
rich,  as  well.  You  must  have  philanthropists.  You 
must  study  them  carefully,  as  well  as  the  poor." 

"That  is  very  true,"  agreed  the  author  of  "By  the 
Sweat  of  His  Brow." 

"It  is  not  as  if  we  demanded  all  of  your  time," 
pleaded  Miss  Ruth  earnestly.  "Only  an  hour  or  two 
a  day.  You  will  have  ample  time  to  write.  You  will 
find  us  liberal  as  regards  the  honorarium." 

"If  I  were  in  any  way  convinced  of  my  fitness  for 
the  task,"  protested  Textor. 

"Nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that,"  urged 
Miss  Elsie. 

"You  are  a  lawyer,"  argued  Miss  Ruth.  "There- 
fore, you  will  be  fair-minded.  You  are  an  expert  in 
economic  questions.  At  the  same  time,  you  are  no 
mere  theorist." 

"But  I  have  my  novel  to  finish.  On  no  account 
could  I  delay  that." 

"Certainly    not,"  cried  Miss    Ruth,  triumphantly. 


"BY  THE  SWEAT  OF  HIS   BROW."  21 

''That  we  should  deplore  quite  as  much  as  yourself. 
But  a  great  deal  of  time  must  elapse  before  your  ser- 
vices would  be  in  demand.  We  have  not  yet  even 
selected  a  suitable  building.  At  least  two  months 
must  elapse  before  all  arrangements  can  be  com- 
pleted. Come,  Mr.  Textor,  will  you  at  least  agree  to 
think  of  our  proposition?  I  will  say  more.  Will  you 
agree  to  accept  a  lectureship  in  our  forthcoming 
school,  provided  that  no  serious  obstacle  prevents  your 
doing  so  when  the  time  arrives?" 

"Yes,"  said  Textor;  "I  will  agree  to  that  with  pleas- 
ure. And  now  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  be  earning 
more  quarters  of  a  dollar." 

He  shouldered  his  shovel. 

"You  will  give  us  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  us,  I 
trust,  Mr.  Textor?"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "We  are  always  at  home  on  Thursdays  here 
at  our  house  at  Gramercy  Park." 

Textor  smiled  and  bowed,  ignoring  her  outstretched 
hand. 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  do  not  accept  at  present. 
I  must  not  forget,  nor  must  I  permit  you  to  forget, 
that  I  am  merely  a  snow-shoveler.  When  I  am  a 


22  THE  TWO  WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

novelist  I  shall  remember  your  kind  invitation.  As 
soon  as  my  book  is  published,  I  shall  take  pains  to  let 
you  know." 

And  to  this  arrangement  the  reformers  of  philan- 
thropists gave  a  reluctant  consent. 


THEY  VIEW  THE   ELEPHANT.  23 


CHAPTER  II. 
THEY  VIEW  THE  ELEPHANT. 

THE  partial  promise  of  the  novelist  that  he  would 
accept  a  lectureship  in  the  School  for  Philanthropists 
greatly  encouraged  the  Misses  Fairfax,  and  for  sev- 
eral weeks  they  interviewed  countless  house  agents. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  were  continually 
being  shocked  by  eccentricities  and  extravagances 
of  philanthropists,  the  hyacinths  were  blooming  in 
their  dining-room  windows,  and  yet  they  had  not  de- 
termined upon  a  building  for  the  school. 

The  Misses  Fairfax  were  very  precise  and  particular 
old  ladies.  They  believed  that  they  would  get  just 
such  a  house  as  they  desired,  if  they  were  patient. 
They  did  not  propose  to  accept  a  house  in  the  city,  nor 
one  too  far  out  of  the  city.  Their  house  must  have  a 
certain  number  of  rooms,  and  these  rooms  must  be 
comfortable  and  spacious.  At  the  same  time  they 
did  not  want  a  mammoth  hotel  on  their  hands.  The 


24  THE  TWO   WHITE    ELEPHANTS. 

house  must  stand  on  its  own  grounds,  and  be  secluded 
from  the  gaze  of  inquisitive  little  boys,  and  yet  it 
must  be  accessible  and  convenient.  Such  a  building 
was  not  easy  to  find. 

Two  months  after  the  interview  with  the  novelist, 
they  received  a  letter  from  him.  His  book  had  been 
accepted  by  a  publisher,  and  was  going  to  press  al- 
most immediately.  He  was  now  at  liberty  to  call  on 
them  for  further  details  regarding  the  lectureship  at 
any  time  they  should  find  it  convenient  to  receive  him. 

The  sisters  gazed  at  each  other  in  consternation. 

"And  we  have  done  nothing — absolutely  nothing!" 
cried  Miss  Ruth,  holding  up  her  hands  in  indignant 
self-reproach. 

"It  is  simply  criminal  negligence  on  our  part,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Elsie. 

Miss  Ruth  opened  the  rest  of  her  mail  in  mournful 
silence. 

"Sister,  we  must  dilly-dally  no  more,"  cried  Miss 
Elsie  with  energy. 

Miss  Ruth  made  an  excited  gesture.  "Listen,"  she 
commanded.  "It  is  from  Frances.  Really,  she  is  the 
greatest  child.  In  one  corner  she  has  written:  'Dear 


THEY   VIEW   THE  ELEPHANT.     .  25 

Aunties, — Isn't  this  precisely  what  you  are  looking 
for?' " 

"And  what  is  it  that  we  are  looking  for?"  de- 
manded Miss  Elsie. 

"The  dear  child  has  marked  the  advertisement  with 
a  broad,  blue  pencil  mark.  I  will  read  it: 

"  'To  rent  or  lease  for  a  term  of  years,  the  Shrews- 
bury Inn. — A  commodious  structure  of  forty  large 
and  lofty  rooms,  situated  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
Hudson,  in  the  heart  of  the  Clifton  Hills.  The  build- 
ing stands  on  its  own  grounds  of  fifteen  acres,  and  is 
in  the  midst  of  the  beautiful  Whitehurst  estate.  A 
spacious  piazza,  surrounds  the  house,  affording  ample 
opportunity  for  exercise  in  stormy  weather.  A  bowl- 
ing alley  and  billiard  rooms  are  attached.  There  is 
an  abundant  supply  of  pure  spring  water.  The  pump 
that  forces  the  water  to  the  cistern  is  in  excellent  con- 
dition. A  complete  apparatus  is  on  the  premises  for 
the  manufacture  of  gas  and  ice.  Three  miles  from 
Clifton-on-the-Hudson,  and  twenty-three  miles  from 
New  York  City.  Especially  suitable  for  a  school. 
Terms  very  reasonable.' " 

Miss  Ruth  laid  the  paper  on  her  knees  and  looked 
triumphantly  at  her  sister. 


26  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS.  «, 

"Can  you  imagine  anything  more  satisfactory?"  she 
challenged. 

But  Miss  Elsie  had  been  deceived  so  often  by  flow- 
ery advertisements,  which  had  turned  out  to  be  the 
commonest  weeds,  that  she  restrained  her  enthusiasm, 
and  answered  cautiously:  "It  certainly  sounds  prom- 
ising, Ruth.  No  doubt,  we  should  investigate  the 
matter.  However,  I  doubt " 

Miss  Ruth,  being  of  a  more  sanguine  temperament, 
cut  her  short,  impatiently:  "Yes;  and  while  we  are 
debating,  Elsie,  and  being  skeptical,  some  school- 
master or  inn-keeper,  perhaps,  will  have  gobbled  up 
the  bargain.  We  have  hesitated  long  enough.  It  is 
time  to  act.  As  you  said,  let  us  dilly-dally  no  longer." 

"Then  you  suggest  that  we  see  the  place  at  once, 
sister?" 

"At  once."  Miss  Ruth  rose  energetically  and  shook 
out  her  skirts. 

"On  our  way  to  the  station  we  will  pick  up  Frances 
and  take  her  with  us.  Elsie,  it  has  occurred  to  me 
that  it  would  be  an  excellent  plan  for  us  to  trust 
Frances  with  the  practical  management  of  affairs.  She 
certainly  shows  undoubted  ability  in  that  line.  She 


THEY   VIEW   THE    ELEPHANT.  2/ 

could  attend  to  all  the  culinary  arrangements.  She 
could  put  into  practice  what  she  has  learned  theoretic- 
ally at  the  cooking  school.  If  we  are  compelled  to  de- 
vote our  energies  to  such  petty  details  as  to  where 
each  philanthropist  is  to  sleep,  how  much  he  is  to  pay 
for  his  board,  or  what  he  is  to  eat  or  drink,  we 
shall  have  little  time  for  the  purely  intellectual  du- 
ties that  should  occupy  all  of  our  attention.  Our 
strength  must  be  reserved  for  that.  Do  you  not  agree 
with  me?" 

"I  think  it  an  excellent  idea,"  agreed  Miss  Elsie, 
cordially.  "I  do  not  doubt  that  Frances'  parents  will 
be  glad  for  her  to  have  the  experience.  At  the  same 
time,  I  could  wish  Frances  were  less  frivolous.  She 
must  be  cautioned,  sister,  against  inveigling  any  of 
the  philanthropists  in  love  affairs." 

Frances  could  hardly  contain  her  joy  when  Miss 
Ruth  told  her  of  the  high  calling  that  was  to  be  hers. 

"And  I  am  really  to  help  you?"  she  cried  excitedly. 
"But,  goodness  gracious,  Aunt  Ruth,  I'm  awfully 
afraid  that  I  don't  know  enough.  If  it  were  a  school 
for  little  girls  and  boys,  instead  of  for  grown-up  phi- 
lanthropists, I  might  have  charge  of  the  kindergarten 


28  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

department  Or  I  might  teach  music.  But  the  grown- 
up philanthropists'  ringers  would  be  too  stiff  to  prac- 
tice, unless  they  have  studied  already." 

"Frances!"  Miss  Ruth  sat  extremely  upright.  "Will 
you  please  not  talk  nonsense?  Of  course,  you  are  not 
to  teach." 

"Oh,  am  I  only  to  look  on?"  asked  Frances,  much 
crestfallen. 

"You  see,  my  dear,  you  are  too  young  to  teach," 
explained  Miss  Elsie,  soothingly. 

"And  quite  too  frivolous!"  snapped  Miss  Ruth, 
gazing  at  her  niece  sternly. 

"But  we  thought,  my  dear,"  continued  Miss  Elsie, 
taking  Frances'  hands,  "that  you  would  enjoy  look- 
ing after  the  practical  affairs  of  the  school,  since  you 
are  so  fond  of  housekeeping.  You  are  to  oversee  the 
servants,  to  buy  the  provisions,  and  to  make  out  the 
bills." 

"That  is  perfectly  delightful."  Frances  recovered 
her  spirits  with  wonderful  alacrity,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  pleasure.  "What  darling  old  aunties 
you  are.  Nothing  could  be  more  fascinating  than  to 
keep  accounts  and  to  make  puddings  and  things." 


THEY   VIEW   THE   ELEPHANT.  29 

"Make  puddings  and  things!"  cried  Miss  Ruth, 
looking  at  her  niece  in  alarm.  "And,  indeed,  you  will 
not,  Frances.  We  can  have  none  of  those  indigestible 
messes  that  you  have  learned  to  concoct  at  the  cook- 
ing school,  smuggled  in  surreptitiously  or  otherwise 
to  experiment  on  the  philanthropists.  We  cannot 
have  them  made  dyspeptics  or  discontented,  child,  by 
ruined  digestions." 

Frances'  good  spirits  drooped  perceptibly  under  this 
stern  reprimand.  "I  have  no  intention  of  hurting  your 
old  philanthropists'  stomachs  by  my  messes,  as  you 
call  it,  Aunt  Ruth,"  she  remarked,  haughtily. 

The  train,  meanwhile,  had  been  wriggling  its  devi- 
ous way  up  the  Clifton  Hills. 

"It  is  perfectly  amazing  how  much  more  pure  the 
air  is  here  than  in  the  city,"  exclaimed  Miss  Elsie, 
putting  her  head  out  of  the  carriage  window  and  draw- 
ing in  a  deep  breath. 

"And  it  is  glorious  to  be  up  so  high,"  cried  Frances. 
"Oh,  if  that  Shrewsbury  Inn  is  not  suitable,  I  shall 
never  believe  in  advertisements  again." 

"I  fancy  that  we  must  be  almost  at  our  destination," 
remarked  Miss  Ruth.  "Have  you  noticed  that  all  the 


30  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

passengers  have  left  the  train  but  ourselves?  And  the 
time-table  says  this  train  goes  no  further  than  the  Clif- 
ton Hills." 

Indeed,  at  that  moment  the  brakeman  fastened  the 
front  door  open  and  shouted:  "Clifton  Hills.  Last 
stop!" 

The  Misses  Fairfax  and  their  niece  alighted  from 
the  train  and  looked  about  them  eagerly.  To  Frances 
the  little  straggling  village,  with  its  shabby,  unpainted 
cottages,  untidy  backyards  and  muddy  streets,  looked 
dreary  and  disappointing.  To  the  eyes  of  the  reform- 
ers of  philanthropists,  however,  all  this  appealed  in  a 
very  different  manner. 

In  every  listless  loiterer,  in  every  sticky  infant  and 
collarless  youth,  in  every  slatternly  housewife,  they 
saw  material  for  the  coming  philanthropists  to  work 
upon.  In  a  few  months,  under  their  enthusiastic  tu- 
telage, there  should  be  no  more  loiterers.  The  chil- 
dren should  have  on  clean  pinafores;  the  housewives 
should  be  thrifty  and  happy.  Yes;  here,  indeed,  was 
magnificent  material  for  practical  experiments  in  mu- 
nicipal and  domestic  reform. 

A  three-seated  buckboard  from  the  Clifton  Hills 
Hotel  conveyed  them  to  their  destination.  They 


THEY   VIEW   THE   ELEPHANT.  31 

passed  through  a  dilapidated  gateway,  over  which 
hung  an  ancient  sign,  bearing  the  words,  half  washed 
out  by  exposure,  "The  Shrewsbury  Inn."  The  road 
wound  among  fir  trees  and  pine  trees,  and  then  the 
Inn  burst  upon  their  view.  They  uttered  exclama- 
tions of  delight.  To  the  right  was  the  bowling  alley; 
there  at  the  rear  were  the  stables  and  the  gas  machine 
and  the  pumping-house.  The  house  itself  stood  on  a 
gently  ascending  knoll,  shaded  by  beautiful  chestnut 
trees.  And  the  lawns!  How  smooth  they  would  be 
when  properly  mowed  and  rolled!  How  admirably 
adapted  for  croquet  and  tennis!  How  beautiful  the 
elm  trees,  with  rustic  seats  beneath  them!  There  the 
philanthropists  might  come  and  sit  and  meditate,  in- 
haling the  perfume  of  those  spacious  flowerbeds,  soon 
to  blossom  with  tulips  and  geraniums  and  roses. 

Miss  Ruth  exultantly  preceded  them  up  the  broad 
steps.  In  her  right  hand  she  bore  the  big  key  of  the 
front  door,  procured  from  the  agent  in  the  city.  She 
unlocked  the  door.  She  threw  it  open  with  a  flourish. 
They  entered,  praying*  that  this  should  indeed  prove  to 
be  the  haven  they  had  been  seeking  so  long. 

"Of   course,"    said    Miss    Ruth,    cheerily,   as   they 


32  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

walked  down  the  echoing  hall,  "of  course,  the  house 
is  old-fashioned,  and  will,  I  imagine,  furnish  us  with 
no  architectural  surprises.  This,  no  doubt,  is  the  re- 
ception-room. The  ceilings  are  in  good  repair,  and 
the  paneling  is  firm.  This  is  the  dining-room;  this  is 
the  office." 

"But  don't  you  think  that  it  looks  a  little  dismal?" 
asked  Frances,  vaguely  disappointed. 

"Did  you  ever  see  an  empty  house  that  did  not  look 
dismal,  child?"  replied  Miss  Ruth  with  spirit.  "Please 
use  your  imagination,  Frances.  You  must  first  of  all 
imagine  these  dirty,  stained  walls  freshly  calcimined. 
Then  you  must  imagine  a  warm,  red  velvet  carpet 
running  the  length  of  this  long  hall;  that  will  brighten 
things  considerably.  Then,  please  imagine  potted 
plants  at  the  corners  and  palms  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairway.  These  bare  walls  will  be  covered  with  the 
portraits  of  wise  philanthropists,  who  will  look  down 
benignly  upon  our  humble  labors  for  the  good  of  hu- 
manity. Then  you  must  try  to  imagine  the  living 
philanthropists  grouped  cheerfully  about,  discussing 
economic  questions  in  the  library,  or  playing  back- 
gammon and  whist  in  this  bright,  sunshiny  room. 


THEY  VIEW  THE  ELEPHANT.  33 

Lastly,  Frances,  you  must  imagine  yourself,  standing 
behind  that  railed-off  place  in  the  office,  making  up 
accounts  or  receipting  bills,  while  your  Aunt  Elsie 
and  myself  will  be  flitting  about,  giving  the  wisest 
counsels  we  can,  and  lecturing  on  mothers'  meetings 
or  day  nurseries." 

"Oh,  I  can  imagine  all  that,"  cried  Frances,  en- 
thusiastically. "And  no  picture  could  be  more  delight- 
ful and  pleasant." 

"And  then,"  continued  Miss  Ruth,  encouraged  by 
her  niece's  approval,  "you  can  hear  the  balls  clicking 
in  the  billiard  room  (in  your  imagination,  of  course), 
and  rumbling  down  the  bowling-alley,  and  the  mallets 
tapping  the  balls  on  the  croquet-grounds.  And " 

"That  is  all  very  pleasant,  indeed,"  remarked  the 
fainted-hearted  Miss  Elsie.  "But  I  cannot  help  im- 
agining, too,  sister,  what  a  lot  of  philanthropists  it 
will  take  to  fill  up  all  these  rooms.  I  am  afraid  that 
the  building  is  quite  too  large  for  our  purposes.  It 
will  be  an  elephant  on  our  hands,  I  am  afraid." 

She  was  gazing  at  the  call-board,  where  the  indi- 
cators ran  up  to  fifty-five. 

"That  is  it,"  Miss  Ruth  exclaimed  a  little  bitterly; 


34  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"that  is  it,  Elsie.  As  usual,  you  must  look  on  the 
gloomy  side  of  things.  You  are  always  casting  water 
on  my  enthusiasm;  you  are  always  drowning  the  pos- 
sibilities and  rescuing  the  impossibilities.  But  you 
ought  to  know  very  well  that  my  enthusiasm  is  not 
easily  quenched  when  it  burns  as  brightly  as  it  does 
at  the  present  moment." 

"I  am  sure  Aunt  Elsie  does  not  wish  to  quench  it, 
Aunt  Ruth,"  said  Frances,  pacifically.  "And  I  am 
enraptured  with  this  little  love  of  an  office.  What 
cunning  little  railings!  What  a  high  desk!  What  a 
big  safe!  Oh,  nothing  could  look  more  business-like! 
I  shall  wear  a  dark  blue  serge  gown,  with  a  wide  collar 
and  turned-up  cuffs.  Or  would  a  dark  skirt  and  a 
shirt-waist,  with  a  high,  straight  collar  and  starched 
bosom,  look  more  business-like,  I  wonder?  And  I 
wonder,"  she  added,  most  irrelevantly,  "if  any  of  the 
philanthropists  will  be  young?" 

Miss  Ruth  was  still  out  of  temper  because  of  the  last 
remark  of  her  sister.  She  remembered,  too,  Miss 
Elsie's  warning  that  Frances  must  not  be  allowed  to 
inveigle  any  of  the  prospective  scholars  in  love.  So 
she  answered,  a  little  sharply,  "Certainly  not.  I  shall 


THEY  VIEW  THE  ELEPHANT.  '35 

be  most  careful  to  have  it  inserted  on  the  front  page  of 
the  catalogue,  in  big,  black  letters:  'No  men  under 
thirty-five  admitted.' " 

"Then,  Aunt  Ruth,"  declared  Frances,  firmly,  in 
prompt  rebellion,  "I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  necessary 
for  me  to  resign.  I  cannot  live  cooped  up  here  with  a 
lot  of  old  fogies." 

"Well,  certainly  not  under  thirty,"  weakly  capitu- 
lated Miss  Ruth.  "And  please  remember,  Frances, 
that  I  positively  forbid  flirting  in  any  manner  or  form." 

"Not  even  with  the  gray-headed  philanthropists?" 
asked  Frances,  discontentedly.  "Surely  it  will  be 
quite  innocent  if  they  are  bald?" 

"No,"  replied  Miss  Ruth,  firmly,  "not  even  with  the 
bald-headed  ones." 

"Because,  you  see,  my  dear,"  gently  expostulated 
Miss  Elsie,  "if  that  were  allowed,  there  would  be  an 
end  to  all  discipline.  They  would  be  neglecting  their 
studies  and  missing  their  recitations." 

"And  discipline,"  declared  Miss  Ruth,  crossly,  not 
at  all  deceived  by  her  niece's  demure  countenance, 
"must  and  shall  be  preserved." 

"Amen,"  said  Frances. 


36  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"Well,"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  when  she  had  locked  the 
front  door  again,  "do  we  or  do  we  not  lease  the 
Shrewsbury  Inn?" 

"We  do,"  shouted  Frances. 

And  Miss  Elsie  answered  somewhat  fearfully:  "It 
seems  very  suitable,  sister,  if  you  think  it  not  too  large 
and  likely  to  prove  an  elephant." 

"Then,"  declared  Miss  Ruth,  briskly,  "it  is  decided?" 

"It  is,"  shouted  Frances  again. 

"Would  it  not  be  as  well  to  write  to  Mr.  Textor  at 
once,  asking  him  to  call,  Elsie?"  queried  Miss  Ruth, 
determined  to  make  her  sister  assume  some  of  the 
responsibility. 

"No  doubt  it  would  be  an  excellent  plan,  if  you 
are  sure " 

"It  is  all  settled  then."  Miss  Ruth  leaned  back  in 
the  carriage  and  closed  her  eyes  to  prevent  any  fur- 
ther remarks  of  a  desponding  character  from  her  sister. 

"Who  is  this  Mr.  Textor?"  asked  Frances,  with 
curiosity.  "You  have  told  me  nothing  of  him.  Is  he 
one  of  the  prospective  pupils?" 

"Mr.  Textor,  Frances,  is  a  young  novelist  who  will, 
we  trust,  be  induced  to  accept  a  lectureship  in  this 
school." 


THEY  VIEW  THE  ELEPHANT.  37 

"Is  he  very  old?"  asked  Frances,  innocently. 

"No,"  replied  Miss  Ruth,  with  suspicion.  "Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"I  was  wondering  whether  he  would  be  eligible?" 

"Eligible?" 

"Whether  he  is  over  thirty,  you  know." 

"There  are  always  exceptions  to  every  rule,  Fran- 
ces," answered  Miss  Ruth,  with  dignity. 

"Then  he  is  not  old,"  said  Frances,  complacently. 
"That  is  nice." 

"He  is  a  very  learned  and  noble  young  man — quite 
too  serious  to  take  any  notice  of  you,  I  expect." 

"And,"  inquired  Frances,  again  with  great  interest, 
"is  he  good-looking?" 

"That,  Frances,"  replied  Miss  Ruth,  severely,  "has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  case." 


$8  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CASTLES  IN  SPAIN. 

THE  young  man  of  literary  tastes  who  desires  to 
tfrite  a  masterpiece  has  a  tolerably  straight  and  nar- 
row path  laid  out  before  him.  He  may  find  this  path 
without  difficulty,  if  he  is  in  earnest.  He  simply  has 
to  spend  half  a  dollar  in  pens  and  pads,  c.nd  cover  these 
pads  with  writing. 

And  when  the  pads  are  at  last  covered  with  writing 
of  more  or  less  excellent  English,  if  the  aspirant  for 
fame  lives  in  New  York,  he  walks  at  intervals  of  three 
weeks  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue  and  West  Twenty- 
third  street,  visiting  various  publishing  houses.  Ke 
keeps  up  these  little  walks — they  are  admirable  for  the 
temper,  and  most  beneficial  from  the  standpoint  of 
health — from  six  months  to  a  year.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  he  consigns  the  manuscript  to  the  waste- 
basket,  or  the  inestimable  happiness  is  at  last  granted 
him  of  correcting  his  first  proofs.  No  doubt  there  is 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN.  39 

much  to  try  the  patience  of  the  writer  of  a  first  book. 
But  the  path,  at  least,  is  not  obscure. 

The  struggles  of  Richard  Bryce  Textor  to  succeed 
as  a  novelist  were  quite  extraordinary.  He  did  not 
write  merely  to  see  his  name  in  print.  He  had  seen  it 
in  print  already.  Nor  did  he  write  merely  for  fame 
or  money,  or  because  he  wished  to  adopt  the  profes- 
sion of  writing  for  his  daily  bread.  He  had  not  failed 
in  several  other  professions.  Indeed,  as  yet  he  had 
entered  no  profession,  although  he  had  just  been  grad- 
uated from  the  Columbia  School  of  Law. 

As  a  law  student,  Textor's  interest  in  the  social  and 
economic  questions  of  the  day  had  been  so  keenly 
excited  that  he  had  lived  at  the  University  Settlement 
in  the  slums  of  Delancey  street,  and  had  thoroughly 
identified  himself  with  the  work  there.  He  had  in- 
structed little  Hebrew  boys  in  the  elements  of  patriot- 
ism and  of  United  States  history.  He  had  danced  with 
the  factory  girls  at  their  Saturday  evening  "at  homes" 
in  Rivington  street.  He  had  conducted  the  debates 
of  the  Young  Men's  Mutual  Improvement  Society. 
And  he  had  enjoyed  this  work  so  much  that  when  he 
received  his  diploma,  and  was  urged  by  his  father  to 


4O  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

return  to  his  native  city,  and  there  to  begin  the  prac- 
tice of  law,  he  was  very  reluctant  to  give  it  all  up. 

It  was  not  merely  that  as  a  practitioner  of  law  he 
would  have  less  time  than  he  had  hitherto  enjoyed  to 
indulge  his  passion  for  philanthropic  work.  He  had 
become  so  interested  in  the  condition  of  the  poor  that 
he  longed  to  interest  others  in  them;  and  the  convic- 
tion was  gradually  forced  upon  him  that  to  arouse  this 
interest  was  his  especial  mission. 

He  had  noticed,  as  he  said  to  the  Misses  Fairfax, 
that  his  lectures  were  not  largely  attended.  His 
pamphlets  had  no  extensive  circulation.  His  remon- 
strances against  municipal  corruption,  in  the  form  of 
fiery  letters  to  the  daily  papers,  were  either  ruthlessly 
curtailed  by  the  editor  or  relegated  to  some  obscure 
corner.  The  great  mass  of  people,  therefore,  were 
never  reached  by  pamphlets  or  lectures.  Was  it  pos- 
sible to  reach  them?  Or  could  he  in  some  way  pop- 
ularize the  cause  of  the  poor? 

The  conviction  gradually  forced  itself  upon  him  with 
an  insistance  not  to  be  denied;  the  novel  with  a  pur- 
pose would,  if  it  were  earnestly  written,  arouse  the 
interest  he  so  much  desired. 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN.  41 

When  once  he  was  sure  of  this,  he  did  not  wait  for 
someone  else  to  write  this  novel.  With  a  simple  faith 
in  himself  that  was  magnificent,  Textor  set  about  writ- 
ing it  with  his  customary  thoroughness.  He  begged 
his  father  that  he  might  devote  himself  one  more  year 
to  the  study  of  sociological  problems.  He  did  not 
dare  tell  him  that  he  intended  to  become  a  novelist. 
This  permission  his  father  granted.  He  insisted,  how- 
erer,  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  small  check  for 
two  hundred  dollars  which  he  enclosed,  his  son  must 
now  rely  on  his  own  resources. 

This  last  condition  did  not  in  the  least  worry  Textor. 
Indeed,  it  accorded  with  his  plans.  He  had  still  one 
hundred  dollars  saved  out  of  his  last  year's  allowance. 
He  did  not  intend  to  touch  either  this  amount  or  the 
check  his  father  had  sent,  until  the  book  should  be 
written. 

The  book  was  to  be  written,  so  to  speak,  with  his 
life-blood.  The  hero  was  to  be  a  laboring-man;  and 
Textor  intended  to  live  the  actual  life  of  the  man  whose 
character  he  was  to  portray.  He  would  work  with  his 
hands  as  his  hero  had  worked.  He  would  be  hungry, 
if  it  was  necessary — eat  cheap  food,  badly  cooked — 


42  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

live  in  a  dark  tenement.  He  did  not  intend  to  guess 
at  anything.  He  determined  to  know  precisely  what 
he  was  writing  about,  no  matter  at  what  discomfort 
and  self-denial  he  procured  that  knowledge. 

Textor  had  a  square  lower  jaw.  He  had  carried 
cut  his  intentions,  though  it  had  been  terribly  hard 
\vork.  He  found  that  prying  up  cobble-stones  with  a 
crow-bar  made  his  back  ache  very  much  more  pain- 
fully than  playing  center-rush  on  the  football  field. 
Eating  ten-cent  beefsteaks  with  a  two-pronged  fork 
v/as  somehow  a  more  formidable  affair  than  eating  off 
a  tin  plate  or  drinking  out  of  a  tin  cup  while  hunting 
in  the  Adirondacks.  It  was  not  fun.  It  was  not 
even  roughing  it.  It  was  always  grim  earnest.  Some- 
times it  was  actual  hunger.  It  is  not  easy  to  endure 
hunger  and  fatigue,  and  to  remember  that  three  hun- 
dred dollars  are  lying  in  a  savings  bank  up  town  there 
in  God's  country  that  would  buy  good  cigars  and 
orchestra  chairs  in  theaters,  and  leisure  to  call 
on  beautiful  girls. 

But  he  had  stuck  to  his  task.  He  had  written  the 
book.  The  street-car  driver  who  lived  in  the  tene- 
ment exactly  opposite  Textor's  window  in  Houston 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN.  43 

street,  had  grown  accustomed  to  watch  for  the  familiar 
sight  of  a  young  man  in  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  pipe  be- 
tween his  teeth,  always  bending  resolutely  over  sheets 
of  paper  far  into  the  night.  The  writing  of  it  had 
taxed  his  will  power  to  the  utmost.  He  had  not  sup- 
posed it  would  take  much  patience  to  write  a  mere 
story.  But  he  had  found  it  harder  than  writing 
pamphlets.  The  story  had  to  live,  and  sometimes  he 
had  gloomy  forebodings  that  it  was  very  dead  indeed — 
that  it  was  simply  an  economic  treatise  in  dialogue, 
and  not  a  novel  at  all.  But  when  he  felt  that,  he 
gritted  his  teeth  together  and  tore  the  pages  up  and 
began  all  over  again.  He  was  bitterly  in  earnest. 
He  had  something  to  say — he  never  doubted  that  for 
a  moment;  and  he  plodded  on  at  his  self-imposed  task, 
every  day  gaining  courage,  and  every  day  singling  out 
with  a  touch  more  and  more  certain  and  artistic  the 
really  dramatic  features  of  the  life  he  was  leading. 

So  that  "By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow"  was  finished  at 
last.  And  he  could  not  help  feeling  very  hopeful.  The 
story  was  heavy.  Sometimes  it  was  crude.  But  it 
was  well  written.  It  was  an  honest  piece  of  work. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  truthful — absolutely.  Indeed,  that 


44  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

was  all  it  pretended  to  be — a  simple,  truthful  narrative 
of  the  hardships  and  obstacles  to  be  overcome  by  any 
laboring-man  attempting  to  raise  himself  above  the 
environment  in  which  he  is  born. 

Textor  was  altogether  too  impatient  to  let  the  story 
lie  on  his  desk  a  month  or  two  and  then  to  revise  it 
critically.  He  was  getting  very  tired  of  fifteen-cent 
course  dinners  and  three-ce-t  bowls  of  coffee.  He 
was  turning  his  mind  longingly  to  the  paradise  up- 
town— the  clean  table-cloths  and  evening  coats  and 
flowers  and  music. 

When  the  story  was  type-written,  Textor  placed  it 
with  the  firm  of  Laman  &  Winslow.  He  took  it  to 
this  firm  rather  than  to  any  other  because,  in  the  first 
place,  he  had  happened  to  meet  the  senior  partner, 
and  because  he  knew  that  Mr.  Laman  was  interested 
in  sociological  ideas.  Again,  he  knew  that  his  story 
would  have  very  little  chance  of  acceptance  with  one 
of  the  great  publishing  houses.  He  knew  perfectly 
well  that  "By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow"  had  few,  if  any, 
literary  qualities  to  redeem  it;  and  these  qualities,  he 
imagined,  a  great  publishing  house  would  insist  upon. 

Laman  was  one  of  those  men  who  succeed  in  any 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN.  45 

occupation  they  happen  to  be  engaged  in.  He  had 
absolutely  no  knowledge  of  books.  He  probably 
could  not  have  told  the  names  of  three  of  the  poets- 
laureate  of  England.  But  he  was  shrewd  enough  not 
to  meddle  with  the  literary  concerns  of  the  firm.  These 
he  left  to  Winslow,  while  he  attended  to  the  purely 
practical  business. 

But  Textor  had  insisted  on  seeing  Laman.  He  told 
his  experience  in  getting  material  for  his  novel  in  so 
dramatic  and  manly  a  fashion  that  the  senior  partner 
had  put  aside  his  rule,  and  for  once  determined  to  use 
his  influence  in  having  the  book  given  at  least  a  fair 
reading. 

"Leave  it  with  me,  Mr.  Textor,"  the  publisher  had 
said.  "Of  course,  I  don't  read  manuscripts  myself, 
but  I'll  see  that  our  readers  give  it  a  good  fair  reading; 
and  I  can  give  you  an  answer  a  little  quicker  than  you 
generally  get  one.  Call  in  a  week.  Come  here  in  the 
office  and  I'll  tell  you  the  faults  of  your  book  if  we 
can't  take  it,  though  that's  altogether  against  our 
custom.  But  I'm  interested  in  the  way  you've  come 
to  write  this  book.  I'm  interested  in  what  you've 
hinted  at  of  the  plot.  Your  ideas  are  right.  You  de- 
serve success,  sir," 


46  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

That  was  a  very  long  week  for  Textor,  in  spite  of  the 
luxuries  he  permitted  himself,  now  that  his  novel  was 
actually  finished. 

When  he  promptly  presented  himself  at  the  end  of 
a  week's  time,  the  senior  partner  was  not  nearly  so 
cordial.  He  took  the  manuscript  from  the  safe,  slowly 
shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side. 

"He  can't  accept  it,"  thought  the  young  novelist, 
fearfully. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Textor."  The 
publisher  carefully  selected  a  cigar  from  a  box  at  his 
elbow,  and  offered  the  box  to  Textor.  "I  have  read 
that  story  myself — every  word  of  it.  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you  frankly,  it  interested  me.  Yes,  sir,  it  took 
hold  of  me  with  a  grip  most  books  lack.  That  is, 
when  I  once  got  into  it.  It  drags  at  first." 

"That  was  before  I  really  got  my  hand  in,"  sug- 
gested Textor,  eagerly. 

The  publisher  nodded  gravely.  "Very  likely,  sir. 
Well,  as  I  said,  the  book  interested  me.  If  that  were 
all " 

"And  isn't  it  all?"  asked  Textor,  anxiously.  "Don't 
you  decide  on  the  merits  of  a  book?" 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN.  47 

"Theoretically,  of  course,  Mr.  Winslow  and  myself 
have  the  say  of  what  goes  in  this  office.  Practically, 
however,  I  don't,  myself,  attend  much  to  that  part  of 
the  business.  The  manuscripts  submitted  to  us  are 
put  in  the  hands  of  one  or  two  readers  who  are  literary 
experts.  If  they  report  favorably,  why,  we  generally 
accept  a  manuscript.  If  they  don't,  we  reject  it." 

"And  they  haven't  reported  favorably,  I  see."  Tex- 
tor  cleared  his  throat  and  hoped  his  disappointment 
was  not  too  noticeable. 

"Well,  to  be  frank,  they  haven't.  They've  jumped 
on  you  unmercifully,  sir — every  one  of  them.  And 
I  told  them  to  be  careful.  They  say  you  haven't  any 
notion  how  to  write  a  story.  They  say  'By  the  Sweat 
of  His  Brow'  is  heavy.  They  say  you  haven't  any 
grace  of  style.  You  are  too  earnest.  The  conditions 
are  exaggerated." 

"The  conditions  are  not  exaggerated,  however, 
whatever  the  readers  say,"  declared  Textor,  quietly. 
"As  I  told  you,  Mr.  Laman,  I've  lived  that  life  for  the 
greater  part  of  a  year,  and  I  know." 

"Yes,  I  remember  your  story  distinctly,  sir.  That's 
why  I  read  the  book.  I  wanted  to  see  if  it  really  was 
so  bad  as  they  made  out." 


48  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"And  I  suppose  you  found  it  worse,"  said  Textor, 
laughing  nervously. 

"No,  I  didn't.  If  I  did  I  should  say  so.  But  I 
didn't.  However,"  added  the  publisher,  cautiously, 
"my  word  doesn't  go  for  much,  you  see." 

"Why  not,  sir?"  Textor  could  not  help  feeling 
more  hopeful. 

"I  told  you  before.  In  the  first  place,  I  tend  to  the 
business  end  of  this  concern.  I  don't  know,  or  pro- 
fess to  know,  anything  about  the  literary  merits  of  a 
book.  In  the  second  place,  I'm  too  interested  in 
these  social  questions  to  be  an  unprejudiced  judge. 
Do  you  see?  Of  course,  we  print  books  to  make 
money.  What  we've  got  to  ask  ourselves  is:  Will 
this  book  interest  the  people  who  generally  read  nov- 
els? Of  course,  we  couldn't  afford  to  strike  off  an 
edition  of  a  book  and  lose  half  a  thousand  on  it." 

"No,  certainly  not."  Textor  buttoned  up  his  coat. 
"I'm  sure,  Mr.  Laman,  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for 
being  so  frank  with  me." 

"Tut,  tut.  Wait  a  bit.  You  are  probably  no  more 
in  a  hurry  than  I  am.  I  haven't  finished  yet.  I  have 
told  you  the  objections  I  have  in  publishing  your 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN.  49 

book.  The  readers  are  against  you.  I  know  nothing 
of  literature.  Winslow's  against  you.  At  the  same 
time,  I've  an  idea  if  this  book  went  at  all,  sir,  it  would 
go  like — like  hell.  That's  just  my  idea.  Now,  don't 
bank  on  what  I  say.  Look  here,  do  you  believe  in 
this  book  of  yours?" 

"I  do,"  said  Textor,  quietly.  "I  do,  sir.  I  can't 
help  doing  so.  It  has  been  my  life  for  one  year." 

Laman  nodded  approvingly  and  blew  a  great  cloud 
of  smoke  at  Textor. 

"Good!  Good!  That's  the  way  I  like  people  to 
talk.  Now,  here's  the  point.  Do  you  believe  in  that 
manuscript  of  yours  enough  to  risk  anything  on  it?" 

He  looked  at  Textor  shrewdly,  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  his  cigar  tilted  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Risk  anything  on  it?"  repeated  Textor,  vaguely. 

"Yes.  Risk  something  on  it.  Would  you  invest 
two  hundred  dollars  in  it.  If  the  book  fails,  you  get 
nothing,  perhaps,  out  of  it." 

Textor  did  not  hesitate.  It  is  true  he  had  hoped 
to  enjoy  the  money  that  yet  remained  in  the  bank. 
But  he  would  have  something  left  even  after  the  two 
hundred  were  paid;  and  he  would,  of  course,  receive 


5O  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

remuneration  for  his  services  at  the  School  of  Philan- 
thropists. He  had  economized  too  long  not  to  econ- 
omize a  little  longer.  So  he  said,  very  quietly,  "Cer- 
tainly, Mr.  Laman,  I  believe  in  it  to  that  extent." 

"Be  careful,  now,"  warned  the  publisher.  "Go  into 
it  with  your  eyes  open,  young  man.  I  don't  know 
how  you  can  spare  the  money,  but  if  the  book's  a  fail- 
ure, you  may  get  precious  little  of  your  money  back. 
I  make  no  promises.  You  understand  that." 

"Perfectly.     You  shall  have  the  money  to-morrow." 

"Very  well,  and  then  we'll  sign  the  contracts.  It's 
the  usual  ten  per  cent,  arrangement,  Mr.  Textor;  set- 
tlements semi-annually  on  application.  Now,  sir, 
Heaven  knows  I  make  no  promises  or  predictions. 
I've  been  in  the  book  business  too  long  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself  that  way.  Besides,  Winslow's  against 
me.  But  I  venture  to  say  that  there  are  a  good  many 
chances  of  this  book  making  a  hit.  At  any  rate,  it's 
one  of  those  books  that  have  no  middle  course.  If  it 
goes  at  all  it  will  make  a  hit,  I  say,  or  fall  flat." 

"And  when  will  it  go  to  press?"  asked  Textor.  His 
voice  trembled  a  little.  He  tried  not  to  be  boyish  and 
delighted,  but  he  felt  very  hopeful  indeed. 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN.  $1 

"Right  away,  sir.  You'll  be  getting  the  proofs  in 
a  month." 

When  Textor  was  in  the  street  again,  he  stood  there 
a  minute  or  two  trying  to  realize  that  it  was  all  over, 
and  finding  it  quite  impossible  to  do  so.  It  had  been 
so  astonishingly  easy.  It  bewildered  him. 

He  had  expected  heart-breaking  delays;  and  he  was 
to  receive  the  proofs  in  a  month.  He  was  almost 
afraid  to  acknowledge  to  himself  why  it  had  been  so 
easy.  But  the  conviction  caught  hold  of  him — held 
him — refused  to  let  him  go:  the  book  had  merit,  per- 
haps great  merit.  It  had  conquered  the  publisher. 
Why  should  it  not  conquer  the  world  as  well?  It  is 
true,  the  readers  had  rejected  the  novel.  But  he  re- 
membered reading  that  the  author  of  "The  Sweep  of 
the  Monsoon"  had  been  turned  away  from  twenty  pub- 
lishing houses,  and  that  book  was  now  in  its  fiftieth 
thousand.  Fifty  thousand  copies!  Why,  at  ten  per 
cent.,  and  at  $1.50  a  book,  the  royalties  would  amount 
to  $7,500.  Seven  thousand  five  hundred  dollars  for 
his  first  book!  And  during  the  past  few  months  he 
had  known  what  it  was  to  begrudge  the  spending  of  a 
few  cents.  Seven  thousand  for  his  first  book!  It  was 
glorious ! 


52  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

He  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  to  Washington 
Square  and  seated  himself  among  the  bums  and  boot- 
blacks and  little  Italian  babies.  He  wished  he  could  be 
alone  with  his  good  fortune.  He  wanted  to  calculate 
— to  think. 

"Of  course,  I  mustn't  be  extravagant  in  my  esti- 
mates," he  said  to  himself,  feverishly,  ripping  open  an 
envelope  and  covering  it  with  figures.  "I  must  be 
conservative.  Let  us  suppose  at  the  lowest  calcula- 
tion that  4,000  will  be  sold  by  July.*  According  to 
Laman,  it  will  be  that  or  nothing.  Four  thousand  at 
ten  per  cent,  and  at  $1.50  a  copy  will  be  $650.  Very 
well.  Then  by  Christmas  I  can  surely  count  on  sell- 
ing 4,000  more.  That  makes  $1,200  a  year.  By 
August  my  second  book  ought  to  be  well  under  Way. 
If  I  write  two  books  a  year,  I  ought  to  make,  then, 
$5,000  a  year.  I  could  think  of  marrying  if  I  could 
find  a  nice  girl.  There  is  no  doubt  of  it,  I've  struck 
my  gait  this  time.  But  supposing  I  shouldn't  suc- 
ceed?" 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  stared  fixedly  at  the 
cross  on  the  church  across  the  square.  Then  he 
laughed  nervously.  It  was  impossible  to  fail. 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN.  53 

He  walked  over  to  Broadway  to  draw  the  money 
out  of  the  bank  and  to  sign  the  contracts.  And  it 
was  not  until  he  had  signed  them  and  had  again  be- 
gun to  count  the  chances  of  success  or  failure  in  his 
room,  that  he  remembered  with  a  little  pang  of  self- 
reproach  that  he  had  written  the  book,  not  for  fame 
or  money,  but  to  do  good. 

But  it  is  astonishing  how  readily  one  lusts  after  the 
flesh-pots  of  Egypt — the  material  rewards  of  success, 
fame  and  fortune — even  when  one  does  things  to  do 
good. 


54  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   ELEPHANT   IS   GROOMED. 

"PHILANTHROPIST  HALL. — Opened  on  this  da\, 
May  I,  at  Clifton  Hills,  New  York,  an  institution 
founded  for  the  broadening  of  philanthropic  ideals.  Do 
you  wish  to  endow  a  $1,000  scholarship,  or  to  build 
a  $1,000,000  college?  Nothing  is  too  great  or  too 
small  for  our  attention.  Learn  of  experts  where  your 
money  will  do  the  most  good.  Let  forethought  and 
knowledge  govern  your  charities,  not  caprice.  You 
can  save  yourself  worry  and  needless  expense  by  at- 
tending a  session  at  our  school.  Philanthropist  Hall 
and  its  faculty  are  at  the  service  of  the  world.  No 
expense  save  for  board.  None  but  philanthropists  of 
good  habits  and  of  thirty  years  of  age  admitted.  Write 
for  circular  to  the  directresses." 

This  was  the  unique  advertisement  that  appeared  in 
all  the  prominent  magazines  and  newspapers  of  the 
United  States  on  the  morning  of  May  i. 


THE  ELEPHANT  IS  GROOMED.  55 

Philanthropist  Hall  was  thrown  open  to  the  world. 

Hundreds  of  catalogues  had  been  scattered  broad- 
cast throughout  the  land.  The  catalogue  was  a  work 
of  art.  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  regarded  it  with 
affectionate  pride.  It  was  printed  on  thick  paper  with 
rough  edges.  The  margins  were  wide.  The  type 
was  antique  and  easily  read.  Miss  Ruth  had  written 
it  with  enthusiasm.  She  trusted  that  it  would  arouse 
guilty  philanthropists  to  the  enormity  of  the  /offence 
of  careless  giving — that  it  would  awaken  a  fervent  de- 
sire in  their  sluggish  breasts  to  drink  deeply  at  the 
pure  springs  of  knowledge  bubbling  up  at  Clifton 
Hills. 

"This  school,"  it  declared,"  has  been  established 
only  after  the  most  anxious  thought  and  consideration. 
Its  object  is  as  noble  as  it  is  clearly  defined — viz.: 

"To  take  those  who  are  charitably  inclined  (not 
under  thirty,  however)  and  to  stamp  on  their  minds 
the  vital  necessity  of  reform  in  distributing  moneys 
for  the  alleviation  of  those  oppressed  in  body  and 
soul. 

"Philanthropy  has  hitherto  been  the  sport  of  mil- 
lionaires and  the  plaything  of  sentimentalists.  It  must 


56  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

be  raised  to  the  dignity  of  a  'science.'  Let  knowl- 
edge reign  supreme.  'Knowledge  is  power.' 

"The  largest  outlay  for  the  least  possible  cost — 
this  has  hitherto  been  the  vulgar  aim  of  so-called  phi- 
lanthropists. So  long  as  the  bequest  attracts  popular 
applause  and  brings  the  coveted  notoriety,  that  is  all 
that  has  been  asked.  In  the  name  of  humanity,  this 
must  stop. 

"The  world  is  slowly  awakening  to  the  vital  prin- 
ciple: 'Philanthropists  must  be  trained.'  They  must 
understand  exactly  the  evils  of  society  before  they  can 
remedy  them;  they  must  diagnose  the  case  before  they 
can  prescribe  a  remedy.  Philanthropists,  be  no  longer 
quacks,  humbugs.  Put  on  the  armor  of  knowledge. 
Learn  of  experts. 

STUDIES. 

"In  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  no  daily  tasks  will 
be  assigned.  But  it  is  expected  that  each  student  will 
conscientiously  endeavor  to  master  such  books  as  may 
be  recommended  by  the  instructors.  Reviews  are 
held  often,  and  any  flagrant  carelessness  will  be 
promptly  dealt  with.  This  method,  while  slow,  will 
involve  mastery  and  thoroughness. 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   GROOMED.  57 

CONFERENCES. 

"Conferences  are  held,  during  which  practical  ex- 
periments are  planned  and  encouraged.  Frequent 
excursions  are  made  to  the  city.  The  village  of  Clif- 
ton itself  is  very  happily  quite  without  any  of  the  im- 
provements of  model  villages;  and  therefore  admir- 
ably adapted  for  experiments  on  the  part  of  the  pupils 
in  domestic  and  municipal  reform.  It  is  requested 
that  philanthropists  limit  themselves  to  a  compara- 
tively moderate  stipend  to  be  expended  in  these  ex- 
periments. One  hundred  and  fifty  a  week  is  sug- 
gested as  ample.  Undue  extravagance  is  discouraged; 
it  breeds  a  spirit  of  discontent  among  pupils  whose 
means  are  more  limited. 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

"Every  article  of  clothing  should  be  carefully 
marked  with  indelible  ink  (or  needle  or  embroidery), 
to  prevent  loss.  Do  not  use  a  stencil  or  common  ink, 
as  the  marking  will  certainly  wash  out. 

"No  heated  discussions  will  be  permitted  after  the 
hour  of  ten,  if  the  voice  is  raised  above  a  whisper. 

"There  is  no  resident  barber  on  the  premises. 
Students  will  bring  their  shaving  implements  with 
them, 


58  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Male  students  will  please  not  smoke  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  prevent  contamination  of  the  curtains. 
Cigarette  smokers  are  prohibited  from  indulging  in 
the  habit  in  bed." 

The  metamorphosis  of  the  Shrewsbury  Inn  into 
Philanthropist  Hall  had  been  watched  by  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  inhabitants  of  Clifton  Hills  with  a 
lively  satisfaction  and  an  open-mouthed  wonder.  The 
industrious  small  boys,  who  had  weeded  the  gardens 
and  pulled  up  the  chickweed  and  dandelion  from  the 
lawns,  had  been  enriched  by  sundry  pennies.  Their 
mothers  had  scrubbed  the  floors  and  cleaned  the 
windows.  The  fathers  had  put  down  the  carpets, 
painted  the  stables,  planted  the  succulent  turnips  and 
golden  carots  in  the  flower  garden  that  their  offsprings 
had  weeded.  So  that  even  before  the  philanthropists 
had  arrived,  Clifton  Hills  had  felt  their  influence. 
How  much  more  would  the  village  prosper  when  each 
philanthropist  arrived  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars pocket-money  to  expend  on  the  village's  munici- 
pal and  domestic  reform? 

And  now  it  was  the  first  of  May. 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   GROOMED.  59 

The  red  carpet  was  down  on  the  long  corridor;  the 
palms  graced  the  stairway;  pictures  of  great  and  good 
but  defunct  philanthropists  (to  prevent  jealousy  on 
the  part  of  the  pupils)  beamed  expectantly  from  the 
walls.  The  book-shelves,  filled  with  bright  volumes 
of  blue  and  red  and  gold,  invited  conscientious  study. 
Chess  and  backgammon  and  cribbage  lay  about  the 
tables  in  the  recreation  room;  balls  of  all  weights,  for 
both  weak  and  strong  players,  were  placed  along  the 
smooth  and  shining  bowling  alleys,  and  red  and  white 
balls  were  piled  up  in  the  billiard  tables. 

The  faculty  stood,  so  to  speak,  at  attention,  ready  to 
present  arms  in  honor  of  the  arrival  of  the  first  philan- 
thropic pupils. 

Two  shock-headed  inhabitants  of  Clifton  Kills 
(aged  fifteen  and  thirteen,  respectively),  with  shining 
and  freckled  faces,  and  exceedingly  tight,  short  jack- 
ets, embellished  with  three  rows  of  nickel-plated  but- 
tons running  in  curved  lines  up  and  down  the  sides, 
stood  very  stiff  and  uncomfortable — one  prepared  to 
throw  open  the  front  door  at  a  moment's  notice, 
the  other  to  carry  pitchers  of  ice-water,  to  set  up  the 
pins  in  the  bowling  alley,  or  to  run  any  errands  that 


60  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

the  coming  pupils  might  like  to  have  performed.  The 
maids  had  smart  new  caps  arid  beautiful,  white  aprons 
with  two  bows  at  the  corners.  The  coachman  and 
groom  had  brand-new  liveries;  the  horses  had  new 
monograms  (P.  H.)  on  their  harness. 

The  faculty  of  the  Hall  were  not  less  prepared. 
Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  walked  arm  in  arm  in  the 
corridor,  their  black  silk  dresses  rustling  in  extreme 
agitation  and  importance.  Frances  stood  within  the 
railing  with  a  pen  behind  her  ear,  before  the  clean 
page  of  the  big  register.  Textor  paced  to  and  fro  in 
the  economics  classroom,  in  a  long  frock  coat.  He 
was  in  an  excited  frame  of  mind,  due,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
rather  to  the  beauty  of  Frances  than  to  any  thoughts 
of  coming  philanthropists. 

But  the  day  wore  on  and  no  philanthropists  came. 
The  coachman  drove  back  from  each  train  with  the 
surrey  always  empty.  Miss  Ruth  grew  greatly  de- 
jected. 

"It  does  not  seem  possible  that  five  hundred  dol- 
lars' worth  of  advertising  and  two  thousand  catalogues 
can  have  brought  forth  so  little  fruit,"  she  said,  mourn- 
fully. 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   GROOMED.  6l 

"At  least,  the  philanthropists  might  have  written," 
murmured  Miss  Elsie. 

"Not  at  all,"  cried  Frances,  briskly.  "You  must 
not  become  so  easily  discouraged,  Aunt  Ruth.  I  ex- 
pect they  have  no  leisure  to  write.  Philanthropists 
are  very  busy  people.  They  cannot  rush  about  here 
and  there.  They  have  too  many  engagements.  You 
will  see.  They  will  drop  in  here  without  warning. 
Some  of  them  will  come  in  a  day  or  two,  I  feel  per- 
fectly sure." 

Indeed,  at  that  very  moment  there  was  a  crunch  of 
wheels  on  the  gravel  drive.  The  wheels  stopped;  the 
front  bell  rang  loudly;  the  small  boy  in  the  nickel  but- 
tons threw  open  the  door  exultantly;  Miss  Ruth  and 
Miss  Elsie  retreated  to  the  day-nursery  classroom. 
And  there  entered  the  first  of  the  philanthropists. 


62  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MR.    COXE,  THE  DYSPEPTIC. 

THE  arrivals  were  a  woman  of  an  angular  cast  of 
countenance,  and  a  melancholy  man  in  a  long,  black 
coat  and  silk  hat.  The  woman  accosted  the  boy  in 
buttons  in  a  deep,  masculine  voice: 

"I  want  to  see  the  proprietor  of  this  hotel,  boy. 
Coxe,  go  in." 

The  latterwas  addressed  to  the  melancholy  man,  who 
stepped  into  the  hall  with  a  nervous  precipitancy. 

The  boy  stared.     "The  what,  ma'am?" 

"The  proprietor — the  manager  of  this  hotel,"  re- 
peated the  angular  person,  in  gutteral  accents. 

"Hotel,  ma'am?  This  ain't  no  hotel,  ma'am.  And 
there  ain't  any  manager,  if  you  please,  ma'am.  There's 
only  a  manageress." 

She  pushed  the  boy  against  the  wall,  and  made  her 
way  aggressively  into  the  office,  her  arms  akimbo. 
There  Frances  stood,  pen  in  hand,  behind  the  big 


MR.   COXE,   THE   DYSPEPTIC.  63 

ledger,  ready  to  greet  the  first  of  the  philanthropists 
with  beaming  smiles. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  are  the  clerk,  young  woman. 
Well,  I  want  to  see  the  manager.  Coxe,  sit  down." 

Thus  admonished,  Mr.  Coxe  seated  himself  in  haste 
on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair  and  sighed  deeply. 

Frances  was  not  favorably  impressed  with  the  new 
arrivals,  so  she  put  her  pen  behind  her  ear  and  said, 
calmly,  "The  boy  is  right.  There  is  no  manager. 
What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  angular  person  looked  at  Frances  doubtfully. 

"You're  not  the  clerk  that  was  here  before.  Well, 
I  suppose  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  I  want  to  put  Coxe 
here  to  board.  Coxe,  there,  is  my  husband." 

Frances  looked  at  the  solemn  individual  in  the  silk 
hat  with  interest. 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  politely.  "He  is  a  philanthro- 
pist, Mrs.  Coxe?" 

"A  what?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Coxe,  explosively.  "A 
what?" 

"A  philanthropist.  Does  he  desire  to  attend  a  ses- 
sion of  our  school?" 

"School,  young  woman?    Did  you  say  schopl?" 


64  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Precisely.     School,"  repeated  Frances. 

"School!  Why,  the  last  time  I  put  Coxe  to  board 
here  'twas  the  Shrewsbury  Inn.  You  hear  that,  Coxe? 
They've  turned  this  place  into  a  school.  D'ye  want 
to  go  to  school  again,  Jerry?" 

Mr.  Coxe  glanced  furtively  at  his  better-half,  but 
expressed  no  audible  desire  to  again  take  up  the  stud- 
ies of  his  youth. 

"And  how  long  has  this  place  been  turned  into  a 
school,  young  woman?"  demanded  Mrs.  Coxe,  in  an 
aggrieved  air. 

"Only  recently,"  explained  Frances,  much  disap- 
pointed that  the  arrivals  were  not  prospective  pupils. 
"Perhaps  it  may  interest  you  to  look  over  this  cata- 
logue until  the  carriage  takes  you  back  to  the  station. 
I  am  sorry  you  have  come  here  under  a  false  impres- 
sion. And  while  you  are  waiting,  perhaps  you  and 
your  husband  would  like  a  cup  of  tea?" 

Mr.  Coxe  looked  up  hungrily,  and  his  eyes  glittered. 

"Well,  you  are  obliging,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Coxe, 
slightly  mollified.  "Yes,  I  should  like  a  cup  of  tea. 
But  no  tea  for  Coxe.  The  doctor  has  forbid  him  tea. 
He's  a  dyspeptic,  poor  man.  Jeremiah,  would  you 
like  a  glass  of  nice,  hot  milk?" 


MR.   COXE,  THE  DYSPEPTIC.  6|J 

Mr.  Coxe  moistened  his  thin  lips  with  his  tongue 
and  muttered  something  about  pie. 

Mrs.  Coxe  bounced  up  from  her  seat  and  pointed  a 
bony  forefinger  at  him. 

"Pie!"  she  screamed.  "Pie,  did  you  say,  Jeremiah? 
Are  you  bound  to  make  me  a  widow  before  my  time, 
Coxe?  Won't  you  never  listen  to  reason?  Pie,  in- 
deed! Pshaw!  You  are  like  an  infant  in  arms,  Coxe. 
You  hanker  for  this,  and  you  hanker  for  that,  and 
you  know  all  the  while  you'd  be  laid  out  in  your 
coffin  if  you  ate  a  tenth  of  the  food  you  dream  of. 
Oh,  Jerry,  dear,  I  wish  you'd  only  let  your  Coxie  say 
what's  good  for  you,  and  not  be  so  obstinate." 

Mrs.  Coxe  was  so  overcome  by  the  heartless  con- 
duct of  Mr.  Coxe  that  she  burst  into  tears.  But,  like 
April  showers,  Mrs.  Coxe's  tears  soon  passed. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  dear,  I  know  it's  hard,  but  it's  only  for 
your  good,  lovey.  A  glass  of  milk,  hot,  for  Coxe, 
miss,  steamin'  hot.  I've  got  a  pepton  and  a  cracker 
for  him  here  in  my  bag.  And  if  I  could  have  a  bite 
of  bread  and  butter  for  myself,  cut  thin,  and  plenty  of 
butter,  and  a  bit  of  chicken — a  wing,  if  you've  got  it — 
with  a  mouthful  of  jelly,  and  a  cup  of  tea — Oolong, 


66  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

three  spoonsful,  with  a  smite  of  green,  steeped  three 
minutes  (and  be  sure  the  kettle  is  boiling) — why,  I'm 
sure  I  shall  be  obliged,  and  pay  for  that  same  gladly. 
Pie,  indeed,  you  glutton,  Coxe." 

When  she  had  delivered  this  scathing  rebuke  at  the 
cowering  head  of  her  husband,  and  this  extensive  or- 
der for  refreshments  to  Frances,  Mrs.  Coxe  bounced 
down  in  her  seat  again,  and  began  to  rock  herself  and 
turn  over  the  pages  of  the  catalogue  given  her  by 
Frances,  with  an  angry  violence. 

Frances  rushed  out  to  the  day-nursery  classroom, 
where  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  were  anxiously  wait- 
ing. 

"They  are  not  philanthropists  at  all,"  she  an- 
nounced, mournfully.  "The  woman  supposed  this 
was  still  the  Shrewsbury  Inn,  and  she  has  come  'to 
put  her  husband  to  board,'  as  she  calls  it." 

"My  dear  child,  you  are  not  clear,"  expostulated 
Miss  Elsie,  mildly. 

Frances  explained  the  situation  at  length. 

"Get  the  woman  her  tea  and  chicken,  child,"  Miss 
Ruth  said,  wearily.  "So  much  money  spent  in  ad- 
vertising, and  not  one  philanthropist!" 


MR.   COXE,   THE  DYSPEPTIC.  67 

Frances  herself  carried  the  refreshment  to  Mrs. 
Coxe. 

"I  hope  Mr.  Coxe's  milk  is  hot,  Mrs.  Coxe,"  she 
said.  "Why,  where  is  Mr.  Coxe?" 

"Never  mind  about  Coxe,"  answered  Mrs.  Coxe, 
in  evident  excitement.  "I've  got  to  speak  quick,  be- 
cause I  want  to  catch  that  5.20  train.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  Coxe." 

"I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  him,"  said  Fran- 
ces, looking  around  for  the  dyspeptic  in  some  alarm. 

"No,  no.  Coxe  is  all  right.  He's  out  in  the  porch, 
there,  takin'  a  sun-bath.  Now,  miss,  what  do  you  say 
to  Coxe's  enterin'  this  school?" 

"It  would  be  impossible,  Mrs.  Coxe.  Only  philan- 
thropists are  admitted.  The  rules  are  very  rigid." 

"Well,  I  haven't  any  objections  to  Coxe's  turning 
philanthropist  for  a  while,"  declared  Mrs.  Coxe.  "I've 
been  readin'  your  ad.  here,  and  I  must  say  it  seems  to 
me  this  is  just  the  place  for  my  Jerry.  If  Coxe  is 
only  kept  amused,  he's  all  right.  And  all  this  philan- 
thropy business  and  billiards  and  bowlin'-alleys  and 
things  will  suit  Coxe  to  a  T.  Come,  what  do  you  say, 


68  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"But,"  remonstrated  Frances,  "this  is  not  a  place  for 
people  with  weak  minds,  Mrs.  Coxe." 

"Weak  minds,  young  woman?"  Mrs.  Coxe  clutched 
Frances'  arm  fiercely  and  shook  her.  "Did  I  say 
Jerry's  mind  was  weak?  It  ain't  his  mind.  It's  his 
stomach." 

"But  this  isn't  a  sanitarium,  either,  you  know,"  re- 
plied Frances,  edging  away  from  the  determined  wife 
of  the  dyspeptic. 

"Don't  I  know  that?  Haven't  I  read  this  ad.  of 
yours?  I  guess  you  needn't  try  to  tell  me  what  a 
philanthropist  is,  young  woman.  When  it  comes  to 
that,  I've  married  one  of  'em  myself." 

"Then  Mr.  Coxe  is  a  philanthropist?"  asked  Fran- 
ces, brightening  up. 

"Honest  and  truth,"  declared  Mrs.  Coxe,  solemnly 
"Why,  there  isn't  a  bigger  crank  in  Gotham  than  my 
Jerry,  if  it  comes  to  that.  The  fool  things  he's  done 
in  the  eatin'  line  would  fill  a  book.  You  see,  he  can't 
do  much  in  that  way  hisself,  and  he  gets  his  pleasure 
in  seeing  others  do  it.  That's  the  best  treat  I  can 
give  him — is  to  let  him  fill  up  people  with  things  he 
wouldn't  dare  touch  hisself.  My  last  birthday  present 


MR.   COXE,   THE   DYSPEPTIC.  69 

to  him  was  to  let  him  feed  pumpkin  pies  to  three  hun- 
dred newsboys.  If  you  don't  call  that  philanthropy,  I 
don't  know  what  is,  that's  all.  You  see,  that's  what 
Jerry's  stomach  is  always  hankerin'  after  nowadays — 
mornin',  noon,  and  night.  Pie!  pie!  pie!" 

"But  why  after  pie,  Mrs.  Coxe?" 

"Oh,  it  might  just  as  well  be  cold  beans  or  welsl* 
rabbits  or  lobster  salad,"  said  the  dyspeptic's  wife, 
transfixing  Frances  with  a  gloomy  stare.  "Sometimes 
it's  one;  sometimes  it's  t'other.  Just  now  it  happens 
to  be  pie.  It  don't  make  much  difference  to  him — 
the  greedy  glutton — so  long  as  it's  perfectly  indigest- 
ible." 

"I'm  afraid  he  would  be  very  hard  to  manage,"  said 
Frances,  shaking  her  head  at  Mrs.  Coxe,  doubtfully. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  declared  Mrs.  Coxe  in  cheerful  de- 
nial. "A  widow  in  her  first  week's  mournin'  ain't 
more  meek.  Cream  ain't  more  sweet-tempered.  If 
you  only  watch  him  careful  and  keep  him  out  of  mis- 
chief, you  can  lead  him  about  by  his  nose,  he's  that 
gentle.  Why,  he's  out  there  now,  as  good  as  gold. 
Come!  what  do  you  say  to  my  puttin'  Coxe  to  this 
hotel  to  board,  eh?" 


70  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"I've  told  you,  Mrs.  Coxe,  this  is  not  an  hotel.  I'm 
afraid  it  would  be  quite  impossible." 

"Nonsense!  Impossible!  What  do  you  advertise  this 
place  for,  if  you  turn  your  back  on  scholards  when 
they  come  here,  eh?  I  tell  you,  Jerry  is  smart  and 
cheerful  as  a  cricket,  if  you  only  keep  him  amused  and 
not  let  him  go  'round  hankerin'  after  victuals  that 
would  put  a  grave-stone  over  him  in  a  week  if  he  had 
'em  in  his  insides.  Come,  now,  miss — what  do  you 
say?" 

"I  will  see  the  directresses,  if  you  insist.  But  I  fear 
I  can  offer  you  no  encouragement." 

"Do!"  cried  Mrs.  Coxe,  in  a  voice  of  deep,  mascu- 
line entreaty.  "Tell  'em  I'm  perfectly  willin'  for  Jerry 
to  be  a  philanthropist.  Tell  'em  their  ad.  says  they 
give  a  thing,  and  they've  got  to  give  it,  and  that  my 
money's  as  good  as  the  next  man's.  If  they  don't  give 
what  they  advertise,  it's  false  pretences.  I  could  have 
the  law  on  them  for  less."  » 

Appalled  by  the  dreadful  threat,  Frances  held  a 
troubled  conference  with  her  aunts. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  firmly,  when  she  learned  the 
nature  of  Mrs.  Coxe's  request.  "Law  or  no  law, 


MR.  COXE,  THE  DYSPEPTIC.  71 

Frances,'  we  refuse  her  admission — absolutely.  I  see 
through  that  woman's  machinations.  Her  interest  in 
philanthropy  is  merely  assumed  and  specious.  Tell  her 
to  go,  instantly." 

"Yes;  I  think  the  dignity  of  the  establishment  com- 
pels us  to  refuse  them  admission.  And  yet  there  are 
a  great  many  rooms,"  said  Miss  Elsie,  wistfully,  think- 
ing of  the  call-board  in  the  hall. 

"No,"  declared  Miss  Ruth,  inexorable.  "This  is 
no  asylum  for  dyspeptics,  Elsie,  or  for  imbeciles.  Tell 
that  woman,  Frances " 

Miss  Ruth  was  interrupted  by  a  frightful  clamor  of 
a  bell.  The  sounds  came  from  the  office. 

"It's  the  office  bell!"  cried  Frances,  in  alarm. 

She  hastened  to  the  office  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. She  was  followed  by  the  maiden  aunts. 

At  the  doorway  of  the  office  they  paused  in  con- 
sternation and  astonishment. 

Mrs.  Coxe  ,was  shaking  the  dyspeptic  vehemently 
by  the  collar  of  his  coat.  But  Mr.  Coxe  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  shaking  thoroughly.  His  melancholy  air 
had  departed.  A  leer  of  satisfaction  was  on  his  lips. 
From  his  chin  whiskers  hung  several  crumbs  of  cake. 
His  eyes  rolled  at  the  ladies  in  ecstasy. 


72  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

* 
Mrs.  Coxe  turned  to  Frances  in  a  fearful  passion. 

"There!  he's  gone  and  done  it!"  she  screamed. 
"Oh,  you  cunnin'  serpent,  Coxe!  You  great,  greedy 
baby!  It  was  while  we  was  talkin',  Miss.  And  I 
thought  him  takin'  his  sun-bath.  You  sly  fox!  He 
slipped  in  that  dinin'-room  window  and  he's  eat  half 
a  pound  of  cake  off  the  sideboard.  Oh,  you  deceitful 
thing!  We  shall  have  to  stay,  now,  willy-nilly.  He'll 
have  'em  in  an  hour — the  cramps.  Come,  I've  got  to 
get  Coxe  to  bed.  Do  you  hear?  I've  got  to  get 
Coxe  to  bed.  I  want  a  hot-water  bag  just  as  soon  as 
it  can  be  het.  Oh,  you  pig!  Come,  I've  got  to  get 
Coxe  to  bed." 

The  dyspeptic  was  put  to  bed  with  difficulty.  The 
anxiety  of  Mrs.  Coxe  was  manifested  in  such  violence 
that  no  thought  of  guile  was  awakened  in  the  innocent 
breasts  of  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie.  But  when,  the 
next  morning,  the  gong  was  sounded  for  breakfast, 
neither  Mrs.  nor  Mr.  Coxe  answered  the  summons. 
A  maid,  sent  up  stairs  to  knock  at  their  door,  could 
get  no  response. 

Alarmed,  the  ladies  entreated  Textor  to  see  if  any- 
thing was  the  matter.  Failing  to  procure  any  re- 


MR.   COXE,   THE   DYSPEPTIC.  73 

sponse,  after  repeated  rappings,  the  novelist  opened 
the  door  and  peeped  in.  Mr.  Coxe  was  huddled  in 
bed,  the  clothes  pulled  up  to  his  chin.  He  was  groan- 
ing violently,  but  disdained  to  tell  where  Mrs.  Coxe 
was. 

"Mrs.  Coxe  is  not  in  the  bedroom,  and  Mr.  Coxe 
refuses  to  answer  any  questions,"  said  Textor  to  Miss 
Ruth,  returning  to  the  dining-room. 

"Not  in  her  room!"  repeated  the  ladies,  all  of  them 
rising  in  serious  alarm. 

At  this  moment  the  shock-headed  Cerberus  of  the 
doorway  in  the  nickel-plated  buttons,  was  led  into  the 
room  by  Eliza,  the  cook. 

"I'm  thinking  as  he  can  tell  you  where  the  lady  is," 
said  Eliza,  grimly,  releasing  the  shock-headed  boy's 
ear. 

"If  you  please,  mam,"  sobbed  the  shock-headed 
boy,  very  much  frightened,  "if  you  are  speaking  of 
the  lady  with  the  circus  voice,  mam,  Eliza,  here,  says 
I'm  to  tell  you,  mam,  that  I  seen  her  goin'  to  the  depot 
fit  tg  bust,  early  this  mornin',  mam,  while  I  was  clean- 
in'  the  doorplate  with  Putz  pomade,  mam." 

"At  what  hour,  boy?"  demanded  Miss  Ruth,  sternly. 


74  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"About  six  o'clock,  mam." 

There  was  a  silence  to  be  felt. 

"Why,  boy,  did  you  not  tell  us  this  before?"  asked 
Miss  Ruth  again,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

"Because  no  one  asked  me,  mam.  And  because  the 
lady  with  the  circus  voice  said  she'd  have  me  spanked 
if  I  did.  And  she  give  me  a  dime  not  to,  mam,"  an- 
swered the  youthful  Judas,  sobbing  violently. 

"You  may  go,  boy,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  quietly. 

Then  the  faculty  of  Philanthropist  Hall  gazed  at 
one  another  in  dismay.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
Mrs.  Coxe's  black  heart.  She  had  basely  fled.  The 
dyspeptic  was  left  on  their  hands. 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  WITH   MR.   COXE  ?      75 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  WITH  MR.  COXE? 

THAT  was  a  day  of  depressing  anxiety  for  Miss 
Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie.  They  listened  fearfully  outside 
the  dyspeptic's  door  to  his  groans.  Through  the 
agency  of  Textor,  they  tempted  him  with  dry  toast  and 
crackers;  milk,  au  naturel  and  peptonized,  hot  and 
cold,  but  the  dyspeptic  obstinately  refused  to  eat.  The 
doctor  summoned,  Mr.  Coxe's  stubbornness  did  not 
abate.  He  refused  to  put  out  his  tongue;  he  refused 
to  permit  his  pulse  to  be  felt.  He  refused  to  say  in 
what  region  of  his  stomach  he  suffered  pain.  The 
doctor  lost  all  patience  with  him,  and  drove  away 
after  prescribing  this  heroic  treatment:  "Let  him 
starve,  if  he  wants  to;  it  won't  hurt  him;  and  when  he 
is  hungry,  keep  up  his  diet  of  peptonized  milk  and  soda 
crackers." 

It  was  all  very  well,  however,  for  a  brutal  physician 
to  say,  "Let  him  starve."  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie 


76  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

felt  the  responsibility  terribly.  Supposing  he  were  to 
indulge  in  some  secret  orgy  of  pie  or  cake  and  die  on 
their  hands?  What  would  they  say  to  Mrs.  Coxe 
when  she  returned?  Or  supposing  she  were  never  to 
return?  Dared  they,  as  Christian  philanthropists, 
thrust  the  dyspeptic  out  in  the  world,  where  tempta- 
tion would  assail  him  on  every  side? 

The  day  dragged  on  slowly.  The  first  mail  came, 
but  no  word  from  Mrs.  Coxe.  They  waited  the  even- 
ing mail  with  feverish  anxiety. 

"If  no  word  comes  from  the  woman  by  that  mail," 
said  Miss  Ruth,  despairingly,  "I  shall  have  hysterics." 

But  word  from  Mrs.  Coxe  did  come  by  the  evening 
mail.  The  tidings,  however,  were  not  precisely  cheer- 
ing. There  were  two  letters — one  for  the  directresses 
of  Philanthropist  Hall;  one  for  Jeremiah  Stone  Coxe. 

Miss  Ruth  read  the  former  letter  to  the  assembled 
staff: 

"S.  S.  Gloriana, 
"Bermuda  Line,  May  2,  1898. 

"Ladies, — I  can't  help  laughing  when  I  think  I  got 
one  on  you  this  time — -^" 


WHAT   SHALL   BE   DONE   WITH   MR.   COXE.      7/ 

"What  does  she  mean  by  the  expression  'got  one  on 
us,'  Frances?"  demanded  Miss  Ruth. 

"Oh,"  explained  Frances;  "I  have  no  doubt  the 
vulgar  creature  looks  at  her  desertion  of  poor  Mr. 
Coxe  in  the  light  of  a  practical  joke." 

"Or,"  suggested  Miss  Elsie,  indignantly,  "may  not 
the  'one  on  us'  refer  to  her  husband's  being  left  on  our 
hands?" 

"Very  possibly,"  assented  Miss  Ruth. 

"Here  I  am,  cosy  and  snug,  as  you  please,  by  the 
time  you  get  this,  on  my  way  to  Bermuda.  (I  shall 
give  this  letter  to  the  pilot.)  And  there  is  Coxe,  safely 
lodged  with  you,  and  groanin'  like  a  pig;  I'll  be  bound! 
I  see  well  enough  when  I  spoke  to  that  pert  woman 
clerk  yesterday " 

"I!"  exclaimed  Frances,  tragically. 

" — that  she  was  against  Coxe's  being  put  to  board 
at  your  hotel;  and  while  she  was  talking  to  the  pro- 
prietors, I  slips  outside  to  talk  to  Jerry,  and  I  see  him 
slipping  in  the  dining-room  through  the  French  win- 
dow, and  I  didn't  say  a  word,  but  I  held  my  breath  till 
he  had  eat  enough  to  show  he  had  been  eating,  and 
not  enough  to  make  him  real  sick.  Then  I  collared 


78  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

him  and  dragged  him  back  to  the  office,  and  you  know 
the  rest. 

"It  does  seem  sort  of  mean  to  slip  off,  like  I  done 
last  night.  But,  I  tell  you,  ladies,  I'm  that  tired  ot 
having  that  big  baby  tied  to  my  apron  strings  and 
gadding  about  with  him  that  I've  got  to  have  a 
change,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it;  and  since  you 
call  yourselves  philanthropists,  and  like  doing  good, 
why,  I  felt  that  here  was  a  chance  for  you;  and  so  all 
parties  being  willing  and  cheerful,  I've  left  Coxe  with 
you,  and  I'm  going  off  on  a  little  voyage  to  Bermuda 
for  a  week's  rest,  and  now  I  want  to  tell  you  about 
Jerry. 

"Jerry  will  be  meek  as  a  lamb  out  in  the  rain  with 
no  wool  on  his  back  for  the  next  week.  That's  be- 
cause he  eat  enough  cake  to  keep  him  quiet  and  sub- 
dued, and  because  he's  always  that  homesick  when  I 
run  off  and  leave  him  this  way,  with  strangers.  But 
if  I  ain't  back  in  a  week,  look  out!  that's  all.  Jerry 
on  the  rampage  after  pie  is  as  cunning  as  a  serpent 
and  twicet  as  sharp  as  a  razzor.  So,  let  me  see,  to- 
day's Tuesday — well,  I  wouldn't  cook  any  pies  after 
a  week  from  to-day,  if  I  was  you.  If  you  do,  Jerry 


WHAT  SHALL   BE   DONE   WITH   MR.   COXE  ?      79 

will  scent  'em  out,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  I've  wrote 
Jerry  to  behave  hisself  nice.  Let  him  amuse  hisself,  if 
he  wants  to,  with  bilyards  and  checkers  and  filan- 
thropy,  and  let  him  have  all  the  gum  he  wants  to  chew. 
He  likes  blood  orange,  but  pepsin's  better  for  his 
stomach.  Enclosed  find  check  to  pay  board  for  two 
weeks,  and  if  there's  any  more  to  pay  I'll  pay  it  gladly 
when  I  come  back.  So,  having  no  more  to  say  now 
and  hoping  Jerry  will  give  you  no  trouble,  I  will  close 
now.  Yours  truly, 

JANE  B.  COXE. 

"N.  B. — Keep  Jerry's  mind  off  his  victles,  and  you're 
alright.  But  look  out  for  pie !" 

"Well!"  faltered  Miss  Ruth,  folding  the  letter  slow- 
ly and  looking  around  at  the  assembled  staff.  "What 
is  to  be  done?" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Miss  Elsie,  "that  Mrs.  Coxe 
has  really  left  us  very  little  scope  for  our  imaginations. 
Either  we  must  keep  the  dyspeptic  until  his  wife  re- 
turns  " 

"That  would  be  intolerable,"  interrupted  Miss  Ruth. 
"How  could  we  devote  ourselves  to  bona-fide  philan- 


8O  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

thropists  with  that  man  dragging  about  our  necks,  so 
to  speak?" 

"Or,"  continued  Miss  Elsie,  "we  must  send  him 
away." 

"But  where?"  asked  Frances.  "Surely,  not  to  the 
poorhouse!" 

"That  would  not  be  necessary,"  said  Miss  Ruth, 
holding  up  a  piece  of  paper.  "Here  is  Mrs.  Coxe's 
check  for  a  considerable  amount.  I  suppose  it  is 
genuine." 

"Then,"  suggested  Textor,  "why  not  send  him  to  a 
private  sanitarium  or  to  a  private  hospital?  A  man 
nurse  might  be  engaged  to  see  that  he  does  not  in- 
dulge in  forbidden  fruit." 

"Unless,  Mr.  Textor,"  said  Elsie,  with  gloomy 
significance,  "this  reliable  young  man  of  yours  were 
bribed  by  the  dyspeptic.  What  precautions  could  you 
take  against  that?" 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Textor" — Miss  Ruth  spoke  very 
slowly  and  judicially — "that,  as  a  lawyer,  you  would 
not  say  there  is  any  legal  obligation  binding  upon  us 
to  receive  this  man  on  the  ground  that  he  is  a  philan- 
thropist?" 


WHAT   SHALL  BE  DONE  WITH   MR.   COXE  ?      8 1 

"There  is  no  legal  obligation  binding  on  you 
whatever,"  replied  Textor,  promptly. 

"But  the  moral  obligation?"  cried  Miss  Elsie,  after 
a  troubled  silence.  "That  is  the  point,  sister.  Dare 
we  slight  it?  Dare  we?" 

"I  fail  to  understand  you,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  uneasily. 

"I  ask,"  repeated  Miss  Elsie,  with  unusual  firmness 
for  her,  "if  there  be  no  moral  obligation?  I  ask  if  we 
dare  put  from  us  this  responsibility  that  has  been 
thrust  upon  us,  however  unwelcome?  Sister,  speak- 
ing for  myself,  I  no  more  dare  put  that  dyspeptic  out 
in  the  street,  to  gorge  himself  to  death  with  indiges- 
tible food,  than  I  dare  place  stimulants  before  a  drunk- 
ard, or  leave  a  baby  to  perish  of  the  cold  that  had 
been  deserted  by  its  unnatural  mother  on  our  door- 
steps." 

"Surely,  Elsie,  you  would  not  draw  a  parallel  be- 
tween Mr.  Coxe  and  a  baby?"  cried  Miss  Ruth, 
crossly. 

"Yes,  if  they  have  both  been  deserted,"  replied  Miss 
Elsie,  calmly.  "They  are  both  unable  to  take  care  of 
themselves." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  the  moral  responsibility  in 
either  case  is  equal?" 


82  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"I  do,"  replied  Miss  Elsie,  solemnly.  "Nor  must 
we  forget,  sister,  that  the  word  philanthropist  means 
a  lover  of  men,  and  not  a  lover  of  babies." 

Miss  Ruth  sighed,  and  yielded  reluctantly. 

"Your  moral  insight  is  so  delicately  adjusted,  Elsie, 
that  I  trust  it  completely.  But  I  must  say  that  some- 
times it  seems  to  me  a  little  morbid.  I  wish  your  con- 
scientious scruples  were  not  so  sensitive  as  to  compel 
you  to  extend  a  moral  protectorate,  so  to  speak,  over 
the  unarmored  insides  of  a  dyspeptic.  Now  that  we 
have  decided  to  keep  Mr.  Coxe,  I  suppose  I  must  go 
to  New  York  to  engage  a  young  man  to  watch  over 
him,  to  administer  to  his  needs,  and  to  amuse  him. 
And,  Mr.  Textor,  I  am  sure  both  my  sister  and  myself 
cannot  think  of  keeping  you  longer  from  your  literary 
labors,  now  that  there  are  no  philanthropists  to  lec- 
ture to." 

"But  I  cannot  dream  of  going  away  now  and  leav- 
ing that  man  on  your  hands,"  cried  the  novelist,  indig- 
nantly. "You  will  permit  me  to  be  the  young  man 
who  is  to  amuse  Mr.  Coxe." 

"Thank  you  very  much  indeed,"  said  Miss  Ruth, 
warmly;  "but  we  could  not  think  of  doing  that." 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE   WITH   MR.   COXE?      83 

"It  would  be  beneath  your  dignity  as  a  novelist,"  ex- 
postulated Miss  Elsie. 

"My  dignity  as  a  novelist  will  not  suffer  greatly," 
replied  Textor,  good-naturedly.  "The  public  has  not 
taken  it  too  seriously.  I  am  sure  I  shall  enjoy  playing 
billiards  with  Mr.  Coxe  much  more  than  moping 
about  the  city  wondering  why  people  do  not  read  'By 
the  Sweat  of  His  Brow.'  I  am  going  to  see  if  I  can- 
not induce  Mr.  Coxe  to  get  up.  He  will  feel  much 
better  if  he  is  dressed,  than  if  he  is  lying  huddled  up 
there  in  bed." 

"What  an  admirable  young  man  he  is!"  cried  Miss 
Ruth,  after  the  novelist  had  left  the  room. 

"He  is  a  great  comfort  to  us,  indeed,"  chorused  Miss 
Elsie. 

Frances  smiled  rather  doubtfully.  She  was  won- 
dering whether  Textor's  enthusiasm  for  the  dyspeptic 
was  quite  genuine. 

"Is  it  true,"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  "that  people  do  not 
buy  his  books?" 

"I  fear  it  is,"  replied  Miss  Elsie,  mournfully.  "I 
have  inquired  for  it  at  several  of  the  booksellers',  and 
they  do  not  even  seem  to  have  heard  of  the  book, 
much  less  have  it  on  sale." 


84  THE  TWO  WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"It  is  because  the  people  do  not  like  to  think,"  re- 
torted Miss  Ruth,  bitterly.  "The  world  is  full  of 
Coxes,  I  believe.  They  have  mental  dyspepsia.  They 
cannot  digest  substantial  viands.  They  are  babes. 
They  must  be  fed  with  milk.  They  are  not  capable 
of  appreciating  a  noble  institution  or  a  noble  book." 

"If  we  could  only  make  them  think,  Aunt  Ruth," 
cried  Frances,  with  energy.  "If  we  could  only  make 
the  people  think  that  they  must  buy  the  book  or  they 
would  be  missing  a  great  deal." 

"If  we  could  do  that,  child,"  remarked  Miss  Ruth, 
quietly,  "we  should  have  a  key  to  success  in  every- 
thing. And  while  you  are  thinking  of  a  way  to  find 
this  key,  I  wish  you  would  discover  a  way  to  compel 
the  philanthropists  to  come  to  this  hall." 

Textor,  meanwhile,  had  tiptoed  upstairs  to  Mr. 
Coxe's  bedroom.  All  was  silent  within.  Mr.  Coxe 
was  perusing  the  epistle  sent  to  him  by  his  wife. 

"Well,  Jerry,  my  dear,"  the  dyspeptic  read,  "you 
see  I  am  off  again — this  time  for  a  little  sea  voyage; 
and  I  do  hope,  Coxe,  that  I  shan't  hear  of  any  of  your 
tantrums  this  time  when  I  come  back.  If  you  do  have 
'em,  look  out,  that's  all.  You  see,  Coxe,  I'm  taking  a 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  WITH   MR.   COXE  ?     8$ 

trip  to  Bermuda  this  time.  Strictly  biz.  I've  made 
up  my  mind  that  something's  wrong  with  that  chap 
that's  running  the  lily  farm.  He  didn't  ship  half  the 
lilies  this  Easter  that  he  did  last,  and  I'm  going  to 
know  the  reason  why,  and  give  him  fits.  Now,  Coxey, 
you  will  behave  yourself,  like  a  dear,  this  time,  won't 
you?  And  don't  go  filling  up  your  stomach  with  what 
you  oughtn't  to.  Now,  Coxey,  if  you  will  be  real 
good,  I'll  give  you  a  treat.  You  shall  have  a  whole 
wedge  of  rich,  gold-spiced,  thick  pumpkin  pie.  There! 
So  now  no  more  to  my  Coxie  from  his  JANE." 

When  Textor  entered  the  room,  the  dyspeptic 
slipped  this  letter  under  his  pillow  and  began  to  moan 
again. 

Textor  stood  at  the  bedside  and  regarded  him  stern- 
ly. He  felt  little  inclination  to  be  too  gentle  with  the 
dyspeptic.  He  proposed  to  deal  with  the  dyspeptic 
in  a  summary  manner.  He  proposed  to  infuse  into  his 
manner  a  little  of  the  firmness  of  Mrs.  Coxe.  So  he 
said,  very  firmly  indeed: 

"Mr.  Coxe,  I  think  you  would  feel  better  if  you  got 
up." 


86  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

Mr.  Coxe  groaned  an  indignant  denial. 

"I  said,  Mr.  Coxe,  that  you  would  feel  better  if  you 
got  up." 

Mr.  Coxe  groaned  even  more  savagely. 

"Mr.  Coxe,"  said  the  novelist,  pleasantly,  "do  not 
think,  please,  that,  because  Mrs.  Coxe  is  away,  you  are 
going  to  be  a  naughty  little  mouse,  and  play.  Be- 
cause you  are  not." 

Mr.  Coxe  stopped  groaning  and  looked  at  Textor, 
much  as  a  little  child  stops  crying  when  its  mother 
arrests  its  attention. 

"Are  you  going  to  get  up,  Mr.  Coxe.  or  do  you  wish 
me  to  remove  the  bed-clothes  and  assist  you?" 

Mr.  Coxe  got  up. 

And  presently,  to  the  admiration  of  Frances  and  of 
the  maiden  aunts,  he  was  being  guided  up  and  down 
the  sunny  side  of  the  verandah,  his  arm  in  that  of  the 
novelist. 

"How  magnificently  you  have  managed  him,"  whis- 
pered Frances. 

"Oh,  it  is  very  easy  to  manage  these  sulky  fellows 
with  a  little  firmness,"  replied  Textor,  grandly. 

"However,  you  may  bring  a  dyspeptic  to  the  water, 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  WITH   MR.   COXE  ?     87 

as  it  were,"  said  Miss  Ruth  to  Miss  Elsie,  "but  you 
cannot  make  him  speak." 

"He  appears  to  be  very  sulky  and  very  stubborn," 
observed  Miss  Elsie,  anxiously. 

Yes,  Mr.  Coxe  was  lying  low. 


88  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HIS  FIRST  EDITION. 

"Bv  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow"  had  now  been  pub- 
lished one  month. 

Already  Textor  had  tasted  a  few  of  the  very  few 
pleasures  of  the  author.  He  had,  too,  tasted  of  the 
author's  very  bitter  disappointments. 

He  had  felt  the  delicious  shock  when  the  first  bundle 
of  proofs  came  from  the  stereotyper,  and  he  saw  his 
ideas  rigid  and  strangely  unreal  in  cold  print.  He  had 
corrected  the  long,  damp  sheets  in  a  boyish  elation. 
Sometimes  he  was  compelled  to  stop  this  delightful 
labor,  quite  overcome  by  the  realization  that  he  was 
at  last  an  author — that  he  had  created  all  this  himself. 
It  was  his  very  own.  He  had  made  it.  And  some- 
times as  the  proofs  came  from  the  printer,  he  was  sur- 
prised at  his  work.  It  seemed  to  him  clever  and  virile. 
The  characters  seemed  to  be  talking  to  him.  He  could 
hardly  believe  that  he  had  written  it  all.  But  at  other 


HIS   FIRST   EDITION.  89 

times  it  seemed  to  him  so  weak  and  foolish  and  puerile 
that  he  could  have  consigned  it  to  the  waste-basket 
without  a  regret.  He  was  afraid  that  his  friends  would 
laugh  at  him. 

One  day  he  received  the  laconic  message : 

"You  can  have  some  books  to-morrow.  You  are 
entitled  to  twelve  copies.  The  book  will  be  on  the 
market  next  Saturday." 

The  next  day  he  waited  precisely  one  hour  after 
the  publishers'  offices  are  opened  (so  as  not  to  seem  too 
eager)  before  he  went  to  get  any  of  his  books.  There 
they  were — the  whole  five  hundred  of  them — piled  up 
on  a  table. 

He  held  a  copy  in  his  hand  and  reverently  turned 
it  over  and  over,  half  embarrassed.  He  wrote  his 
autograph  (the  full  name  for  the  first  time)  in  a  bold, 
half-legible  hand  in  some  thirty  of  the  copies  to  send 
to  his  friends.  As  in  a  dream,  he  heard  the  shipper 
call  out  from  the  end  of  the  long  room :  "Three  copies 
of  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow'  to  Brown's.  Three 
copies  of  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow'  to  Smith's. 
Seven  copies  of  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow'  to  Jones.'  " 
He  saw  the  red  and  blue  poster:  "The  most  remarkable 


QO  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

book  of  the  year,"  and  he  blushed  and  wondered  if 
Laman  did  not  put  it  on  just  a  little  too  thick.  But  he 
was  very  hopeful  and  proud,  and  he  began  to  think 
he  had  been  too  modest  altogether  in  the  computation 
of  his  royalties. 

On  the  Saturday  morning  that  his  book  was  placed 
on  the  market  and  duly  advertised  in  all  the  New  York 
papers,  Textor  was  at  the  nearest  newstand  almost  be- 
fore the  newsdealer  had  arrived.  A  heavy  April 
shower  came  up  as  he  was  scanning  the  paper  for  the 
publishers'  announcements,  but  he  hardly  noticed  it 

"Published  This  Day! 
'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow/ 

by 

Richard  Bryce  Textor, 

a  novel  of  unusual  strength,  dealing  with  the  social 
problems  of  the  day.  It  will  be  placed  beside  Mrs. 
Humphrey  Ward's  'Robert  Elsmere'  and  Bellamy's 
'Looking  Backward'  as  an  epoch-making  book.  The 
author  has  himself  lived  the  proletarian  existence  and 
suffered  many  of  the  denials  and  hardships  that  are 


HIS   FIRST   EDITION.  9! 

the  lot  of  the  laboring  man.  He  has  therefore  written 
with  an  earnestness  that  absolutely  convinces.  A 
prominent  critic  says  of  the  book:  'It  is  a  novel  with 
a  purpose,  but  of  extraordinary  power.  It  is  written 
with  a  fire  that  reminds  one  of  Tolstoi  or  of  Victor 
Hugo.  Its  literary  skill  is  as  rare  as  it  is  remarkable.' 
For  sale  everywhere  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of 
price. 

$1.50,  cloth  bound,  ornamental. 
Laman  &  Winslow,  Publishers." 

Textor  read  the  advertisement  that  April  morning 
over  and  over  until  the  rain  had  blurred  the  type  into 
an  indecipherable  blot.  But  the  shower  passed,  and 
the  sun  beat  warmly  on  him  as  he  bought  thirty  copies 
of  the  paper.  He  whistled  his  way  back  to  his  rooms, 
wondering  in  his  innocence  who  the  prominent  critic 
could  be.  When  he  had  sent  the  marked  papers  to 
those  who  had  already  received  his  books,  he  went  to 
the  publishers  to  find  out. 

Laman  was  reading  the  advertisement  when  Textor 
entered 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  ad.,  eh?"  asked  the  pub- 


92  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

lisher,  looking  at  it  through  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "I 
wrote  it  myself.  Pretty  neat,  eh?" 

"I  thought  it  was  almost  too  flattering,"  said  Textor 
modestly. 

"Almost!  That's  great."  The  publisher  laughed  up- 
roariously. "The  conceit  of  you  authors.  Almost! 
Ha,  ha!" 

"And  who  is  the  prominent  critic?"  asked  Textor, 
flushing  hotly,  and  wishing  his  publisher  had  a  little 
more  feeling. 

Laman  knocked  the  ashes  of  his  cigar  on  the  floor 
with  his  fat,  jeweled  little  finger,  and  looked  up  at  the 
novelist  coolly. 

"Myself." 

"Yourself!"  exclaimed  Textor,  bitterly  disappointed. 

"Haven't  I  as  much  right  to  think  myself  a  promi- 
nent critic  as  any  one  else?" 

The  publisher  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  looked 
shrewdly  at  Textor. 

"I  suppose  so,"  assented  the  latter. 

"Of  course  I  have.  You'll  find  your  books  around 
the  stores  by  noon  and  at  the  news-stands  of  the  big 
hotels.  I've  sent  about  fifty  of  your  books  to  the  news- 


HIS  FIRST  EDITION.  93 

papers  for  criticisms  and  three  hundred  and  fifty  to  the 
trade.  So  there's  a  hundred  on  the  shelves  there  for 
re-orders.  If  this  edition  goes  in  New  York,  our 
traveling  men  will  take  out  your  book  and  see  that  it  is 
placed  throughout  the  country.  But  if  the  book 
doesn't  go  in  New  York  it  won't  go  in  other  cities." 

"So  there  are  just  one  hundred  to  sell  before  you  get 
out  another  edition?"  asked  Textor.  One  hundred 
seemed  very  few  indeed  to  sell. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  the  publisher,  pointing  his  cigar 
at  him.  "I  didn't  say  that.  Some  of  those  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  may  come  back.  In  fact,  they  are  pretty 
sure  to.  They  are  not  sold  outright." 

And  Textor  left  the  office  strangely  oppressed. 

During  a  great  many  hours  of  the  following  week 
he  haunted  the  booksellers.  Once  or  twice  he  saw  his 
book  prominently  displayed  among  the  new  books  of 
the  week,  and  he  rejoiced.  But  too  often  he  had  to 
search  many  minutes  before  he  found  a  copy  with  the 
wrapper  still  on,  completely  covered  up  by  the  work 
of  a  prominent  author.  Then,  if  the  clerk  was  not 
looking,  he  put  his  own  book  on  top  and  the  promi- 
nent author's  underneath.  When  he  did  not  find  the 


94  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

book  after  diligent  search,  he  inquired  for  it  boldly  and 
expressed  great  surprise  that  it  was  not  in  stock.  But 
when  he  had  done  this  several  times  and  found  that  it 
produced  very  little  effect  on  the  clerks,  he  grew  more 
sensitive  and  imagined  that  the  clerks  recognized  him 
as  an  author  booming  his  own  book. 

Toward  the  last  of  the  week  he  made  the  startling 
discovery  that  several  of  his  books  were  no  longer 
displayed  on  many  of  the  hotel  news-stands.  Over- 
joyed that  they  had,  as  he  thought,  been  sold,  he  has- 
tened to  the  publisher  to  acquaint  him  with  the  fact, 
and  to  upbraid  him  for  his  carelessness  in  not  supply- 
ing these  stands  with  other  copies. 

Laman  laughed  queerly,  but  not  unkindly,  at  his 
young  author's  ingenuousness. 

"Why,  bless  your  heart,  my  dear  fellow,  they  are  not 
sold.  They  are  sent  back.  Look  here."  He  pointed 
to  some  accounts  that  lay  on  the  desk.  "Here  are 
three  sent  back;  here  are  five;  here  are  two." 

"Sent  back!"  Textor  actually  gasped  the  words  out. 
"Sent  back!" 

"Certainly.  If  a  book  doesn't  catch  on,  you  know, 
the  news  dealers  can't  have  the  stands  littered  up  with 


HIS   FIRST   EDITION.  95 

books  that  won't  sell.  If  a  book  isn't  suited  to  their 
class  of  customers  they  send  'em  back  at  short  order." 

"Then  the  book  has  failed,"  said  Textor,  slowly. 

"Not  necessarily."  The  publisher  shook  his  head 
impatiently.  "That  those  books  are  sent  back  from 
the  hotel  stands  proves  nothing,  except  that  the  book 
isn't  suited  to  that  class  of  customers.  I  could  have 
told  you  that  before.  Your  book  isn't  light  reading. 
It  isn't  suited  for  a  railway  journey  or  for  a  hotel 
foyer.  It's  a  big  thing.  It  will  go,  if  anywhere,  with 
the  serious  minded.  But  you  remember  I  told  you 
distinctly  this  book  business  is  a  gamble.  I  told  you 
you  might  lose  your  money." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  money  so  much,"  said  Textor,  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  on  the  street  below. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  publisher,  quietly,  with 
something  like  pity  in  his  voice.  "It's  the  feeling — 
well,  that  you've  failed.  It  hurts  some.  I've  been 
there  myself.  But  I  have  done  all  I  can.  The  book 
stands  on  its  merits  now.  If  it  doesn't  go  now,  no 
amount  of  advertising  will  help  it." 

"I  understand  that,  sir,  perfectly.  You  have  al- 
ways been  most  kind,  and  I  thank  you.  Mr.  Laman," 


96  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"I'm  much  obliged  for  your  good  feeling,"  said  the 
publisher,  grimly.  "It  isn't  often  I'm  thanked  by  your 
tribe  unless  I  pay  out  checks.  I  appreciate  your 
thanks,  Textor." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  novelist  heartily ;  and  Tex- 
tor, somehow  greatly  comforted,  left  the  office. 

He  determined  that  he  would  not  go  to  the  pub- 
lishers again  for  a  long  time.  But  a  week  later  found 
him  once  more  timidly  entering  Laman's  private  office. 

The  publisher  received  him  with  scant  courtesy.  He 
looked  bored  and  impatient. 

"No,  there's  no  news,"  he  cried,  before  Textor  had 
said  a  word.  "The  book,  sir,  is  dead — dead  as  that 
shelf." 

Textor  gazed  helplessly  at  the  shelf,  on  which  stood 
all  the  copies  of  Laman  &  Winslow's  publications,  and 
wished  that  he  too  were  dead. 

"Why  can't  you  advertise  yourself?"  asked  the  pub- 
lisher, sulkily.  "I've  been  thinking  it  over.  Why 
can't  you  wear  long  hair  and  do  something  eccentric 
and  get  yourself  in  the  papers?  That  doesn't  cost 
money,  and  it  sells  books." 

Textor  looked  imploringly  at  the  publisher. 


HIS  FIRST  EDITION.  97 

"You  ought  to  get  some  good  personal  notices. 
You've  lived  in  those  slums,  now.  You  ought  to 
have  some  freak  photographs  taken  and  get  them  in 
the  ten-cent  monthlies." 

"I  came  in  just  to  see  if  there  were  any  criticisms, 
Mr.  Laman,"  said  Textor,  nervously. 

"Yes,  there's  one,"  said  the  publisher,  grimly,  hand- 
ing it  to  him  in  an  envelope.  "But  it  isn't  particularly 
favorable,  I  must  say.  Still,  you  mustn't  mind  that. 
The  'Day'  never  praises  anyone.  They  always  give 
our  books  particular  Cain.  Good  morning,  Textor. 
Come  and  see  me  again  in  a  month  or  so.  I  may 
have  better  news." 

Textor  left  the  office,  vowing  that  never  again  would 
he  enter  it  unless  his  book  succeeded.  He  forgot  that 
the  publisher  was  bored  a  dozen  times  a  day  by  fail- 
ures like  himself.  As  he  stood  by  the  table  to  see 
what  his  criticism  was,  he  heard  a  clerk  say  to  the 
shipper: 

"Author?" 

The  clerk  nodded  towards  the  novelist. 

"Yes.     He  wrote  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow.' " 

"Rot?" 


9»  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"Awful." 

"Catching  on?" 

"Presses  runnin'  day  and  night." 

The  shipper  grinned  broadly,  and  Textor  swore. 

He  flushed  furiously  with  impotent  anger.  He 
wanted  to  fight  the  shipper  and  the  clerk  both  to- 
gether. But  when  he  had  read  his  one  criticism,  he 
was  so  crushed  he  had  no  longer  any  desire  even  to 
fight.  It  was  exceedingly  brief: 

"This  book  weighs  two  pounds." 


MR.  COXE  IS  SENT  TO  BED.  99 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MR.    COXE  IS   SENT  TO   BED. 

TEXTOR  was  upstairs  playing  billiards  with  Mr. 
Coxe. 

It  was  not  an  exciting  pastime.  During  the  few 
days  that  the  dyspeptic  had  been  at  the  Hall,  he  had 
dug  several  holes  in  the  cushion  when  he  had  unskill- 
fully  attempted  "draw  shots."  He  was  playing  even 
worse  than  usual  to-night,  and  Textor  kept  glancing  at 
the  clock,  wishing  that  the  hour  would  arrive  for  the 
dyspeptic  to  retire. 

There  was  someone  else  who  wished  that  Mr.  Coxe 
would  retire.  Frances  was  curled  up  in  a  window- 
seat  out  in  the  hallway.  The  click  of  the  billiard  balls 
seemed  to  make  her  very  nervous  indeed.  Every 
time  she  heard  Textor  say,  "It  is  your  turn,  Mr.  Coxe," 
she  frowned  and  made  a  vicious  little  gesture  with  her 
thumb,  imagining  she  was  poking  it  in  the  small  of 
the  dyspeptic's  back.  She  wished  she  could  take  the 


100  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

voiceless  invalid  by  the  ear  and  lead  him  to  his  bed- 
room. Then  she  might  have  talked  with  the  novelist. 

At  last  Jeremiah  Coxe,  in  his  reckless,  aimless  un- 
skillfulness,  hit  a  ball  so  violently  that  it  bounced  over 
the  cushion  and  rolled  along  the  smooth  hardwood 
floor  out  of  the  open  door  and  bumped  down  the 
stairway.  Then  Frances  heard  Textor  say,  wearily, 
"You  had  better  get  it,  Mr.  Coxe,"  and  presently  the 
solemn  dyspeptic  marched  down  the  stairs  after  the 
truant  ball. 

Frances  tip-toed  down  the  stairs  after  him.  She 
took  the  cue  and  the  billiard  ball  the  dyspeptic  had 
just  picked  up  from  his  hand,  and  said  sternly,  "Mr. 
Coxe,  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed."  Mr.  Coxe 
looked  wistfully  at  the  ball  and  the  cue  and  then  re- 
sentfully at  Frances.  But  she  pointed  authoritatively 
towards  his  bedroom,  and  the  unhappy  dyspeptic  re- 
tired to  rest. 

Frances  hid  the  ball  and  the  cue  in  a  closet  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  and  tip-toed  upstairs  again.  She 
curled  herself  once  more  in  the  window-seat  and 
ahemed  timidly. 

But  Textor  did  not  hear  the  ahems.    He  had  lighted 


MR.  COXE  IS  SENT  TO  BED.  101 

his  pipe,  and  was  seated  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke, 
his  feet  crossed  on  the  billiard  table.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  he  was  dreaming  of  Frances  so  intently  that 
he  did  not  hear  the  timid  little  ahems.  He  smoked  his 
pipe,  quite  forgetful  of  the  continued  absence  of  Mr. 
Coxe. 

He  was  thinking  how  different  everything  might 
be  if  his  book  had  not  failed.  He  remembered  how 
he  had  seen  Frances  first.  He  had  called  at  the  Misses 
Fairfax's  to  accept  the  lectureship.  Then  the  por- 
tieres had  been  drawn  aside  and  she  stood  there,  tall 
and  fair.  His  book  was  in  her  hand.  When  they 
were  introduced  by  the  maiden  aunts,  she  had  walked 
swiftly  to  him,  and  had  shaken  hands  with  him  in  a 
manner  charmingly  frank — almost  as  frankly  as  a  man. 
She  had  addressed  him  as  "the  novelist"  for  the  first 
time.  She  had  discussed  his  book  with  him.  And 
when  he  had  heard  that  she  was  to  be  at  Philanthropist 
Hall,  how  enthusiastically  he  had  entered  into  the 
project,  much  to  the  maiden  aunts'  delight.  And 
when  he  had  left  her  he  had  walked  three  miles  in  the 
wrong  direction,  wondering  if  she  were  yet  engaged, 
and  thinking  that  if  his  book  went  into  its  fifteenth 
thousand  he  could  afford  to  marry. 


102  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

He  thought  of  all  this,  until  he  remembered  with  a 
sharp  pang  what  a  failure  he  was,  and  how  he  could 
not  even  permit  himself  to  fall  in  love,  much  less  think 
of  marrying. 

But  when  Frances  had  ahemed  a  great  many  times, 
more  and  more  loudly,  she  was  righteously  indignant 
that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  cast  her  pride  to  the 
winds  and  to  go  meekly  to  the  billiard-room  instead  of 
his  coming  meekly  to  her.  She  stood  at  "the  doorway 
and  watched  him  a  moment  or  two,  her  tender  little 
heart  full  of  pity  that  he  looked  so  disconsolate  and 
sad. 

"Are — are  you  very  busy?"  she  asked,  at  length. 
"Are  you  rehearsing  a  lecture  on  the  sweating  system 
to  yourself,  or  are  you  making  up  plots?  Oh,  I  hope 
I  haven't  interrupted  your  hero  telling  the  heroine 
that  he  adores  her.  Or  have  I  broken  off  a  love 
quarrel?" 

Textor  sprang  to  his  feet  and  smiled  at  her  so  de- 
lightedly that  Frances  quite  forgave  him  that  he  did 
not  hear  the  timid  ahems. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  was  not  thinking  of  any  new  book 
at  all.  It  is  bad  enough  to  remember  that  the  old  one 
has  fallen  flat,  you  know." 


MR.   COXE  IS  SENT  TO  fcEt).  10$ 

"Oh,  has  it  really?    You  are  not  exaggerating?" 

"No,  I  am  not  exaggerating.  But  don't  let  us  talk 
of  that  old  book  any  more.  Do  you  play  billiards? 
Then  don't  you  want  to  learn?  You  don't  mind  if 
I  smoke?" 

"No;  I  do  not  object  to  your  smoking.  I  do  not 
play  billiards.  But  I  do  want  to  talk  about  the  book, 
please." 

"You  won't  find  it  a  very  interesting  subject,  Miss 
Van  Taft,"  said  Textor,  knocking  the  balls  about  the 
table. 

"Mr.  Textor,  I  command  you  to  listen  to  me,"  said 
Frances,  smiling.  "You  must  put  down  that  stick 
at  once  and  sit  here." 

The  novelist  obediently  put  the  cue  in  its  rack  and 
seated  himself  by  her  side  on  the  settee. 

"And  arc  we  going  to  be  very  business-like?"  he 
asked  with  mock  solemnity. 

"Very,"  declared  Frances,  looking  at  him  seriously. 
"You  know,  I  am  intensely  practical.  That  is  my 
forte.  Now,  I  wonder  if  we  cannot  decide  why  your 
book  has  not  succeeded?" 

There  was  a  gravity  so  adorable  and  saint-like  on 


104  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

her  face  that  Textor  was  thinking  of  everything  ex- 
cept the  book.  "I  wonder,"  he  said.  But  he  was 
wondering  if  he  ever  should  have  the  happiness  of 
kissing  that  grave  little  mouth. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Frances,  frowning  at  him  in 
her  earnestness,  "that  your  book  does  not  sell  because 
it  is  worthless.  From  a  purely  literal  y  point  of  view 
it  may  be  not  well  written.  I  am  not  capable  of  judg- 
ing as  to  that.  It  goes  heavily  at  first,  and  I  think 
the  plot  is  not  carefully  worked  out.  But  after  one  is 
started,  it  enthralls  one.  Oh,  those  poor  working 
men!  it  made  me  pity  them  so.  It  must  be  good  if  it 
stirs  one  so." 

"You  are  prejudiced  in  my  favor,  perhaps." 

Frances  shook  her  head  obstinately. 

"No;  I  don't  think  so.  I  am  trying  very  hard  not 
to  be.  If  the  book  has  really  failed,  I  do  not  think  it 
is  because  it  does  not  deserve  success." 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  saying  that,"  said  Textor, 
simply. 

Frances  held  out  her  hand  in  expostulation. 

"Please  do  not  think  I  say  that  just  because  I  care." 

"But  you  do  care," 


MR.   COXE   IS   SENT   TO   BED.  105 

"Oh,  we  all  care — very,  very  much,"  cried  Frances, 
taking  refuge  behind  the  non-committal  first  person 
pronoun,  plural.  "And  I've  wondered  and  wondered 
if  there  wasn't  something  we  could  do  to  wake  the 
stupid  public  up.  Has  the  book  been  reviewed?" 

Textor  showed  her  his  one  criticism. 

'That's  the  only  one,"  he  said,  ruefully. 

"Oh,"  declared  Frances,  "that  makes  me  mad  all 
over.  I  shall  never  read  the  'Day'  again." 

"But  it  is  very  clever,  you  know,"  said  Textor,  un- 
concernedly. 

"No;  it  is  cruel;  it  is  unjust.  And  it  proves  noth- 
ing— nothing!  Why,  if  you  gave  that  same  critic  a 
good  dinner  or  a  comfortable  orchestra  chair  at  the 
play,  he  would  turn  about  and  pronounce  your  book 
admirable!" 

"What  wicked  creatures  critics  must  be!" 

"Critics,"  said  Frances  with  conviction,  "are  very 
unscrupulous  persons.  You  can  bribe  them  with  a 
dinner,  as  I  said.  They  are  always  poor,  and  they  are 
often  hungry." 

"Where  did  you  learn  all  this?" 

"I  read  it— in  Dr.  Johnson's  works,  somewhere," 


106  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

declared  Frances.  "At  least,  I  think  it  was  Dr.  John- 
son. Do  you  know  any  critics  you  can  bribe?" 

Frances  looked  at  him  in  great  anxiety. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"That  is  too  bad.  I  am  disappointed.  Still,  \vc 
mustn't  be  discouraged.  Couldn't  you  boom  the  book 
yourself  in  some  way?" 

"The  publisher  said  that  I  ought  to  advertise  myself. 
I  must  wear  my  hair  long  and  do  eccentric  things,  and 
get  myself  talked  about  in  the  newspapers.  And  I 
must  have  freak  photographs  taken.  Would  you  like 
me  to  do  that  very  much?" 

"Not  very  much,"  laughed  Frances.  "But  couldn't 
you  get  your  friends  to  inquire  for  the  book  at  the 
shops?  That  would  make  the  booksellers  get  the 
books  in  stock  if  they  hadn't  them  in  stock  already." 

"But  my  friends  would  have  to  buy  the  book,"  re- 
monstrated Textor. 

"Of  course;  but  they  could  give  the  book  away  as  a 
present  afterwards." 

"I  am  afraid  I  haven't  any  friends  so  unselfish  as  to 
invest  five  dollars  in  my  books." 

"Then  why  couldn't  you  give  them  the  five  dollars 
yourself?" 


MR.    COXE    IS   SENT   TO   BED.  IO/ 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that."  He  did  not  say 
he  could  not  afford  to  do  so.  "There  would  be  some- 
thing decidedly  novel  for  the  author  to  buy  up  his 
own  books." 

"You  aren't  practical  enough,  I'm  afraid,"  said 
Frances,  shaking  her  head.  "I  feel  sure  that  there 
must  be  a  way  if  we  only  thought  hard.  I  shan't  rest 
until  I  find  one." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  indeed!  And  now  let  me 
teach  you  how  to  play  billiards." 

It  is  astonishing  how  closely  Textor  found  it  neces- 
sary to  lean  towards  Frances  in  teaching  her  to  play 
billiards.  He  had  to  look  along  her  cue  to  see  that 
she  was  holding  it  straight.  He  had  to  put  his  hand  on 
hers  to  guide  her  aim.  He  had  to  see  that  she  did  not 
hold  her  cue  too  high  or  too  low. 

"I  could  play  billiards  forever!"  cried  Textor,  fer- 
vently. 

"You  don't  seem  to  enjoy  it  much  while  playing 
with  poor  Mr.  Coxe,"  said  Frances,  demurely. 

"That  is  because  Mr.  Coxe  plays  so  badly." 

"Air.  Textor!" 

"Yes." 


108  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"A  little  while  ago  you  said  you  had  no  friends.  I — 
that  is,  Aunt  Ruth,  Aunt  Elsie  and  myself — we  are  all 
your  friends.  We  all  would  help  you  if  we  could." 

"You  would  even  spend  five  dollars  to  boom  my 
book?"  said  Textor,  jestingly,  to  hide  how  much  he 
really  cared. 

"We  would  do  much  more  than  that,"  declared 
Frances,  stoutly. 

"Thank  you!  Thank  you,  very  much!"  he  said,  ten- 
derly. He  was  guiding  her  cue,  and  he  pressed  her 
hand  lightly  as  he  covered  it.  He  found  her  sym- 
pathy very  charming,  very  dear.  He  smiled  reas- 
suringly at  the  troubled  little  face,  up-turned  to  his. 
"Oh,  I  should  succeed  tremendously  if  it  depended 
upon  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Frances,  soberly.  "You  would.  No 
one  longs  for  you  to  succeed  more  than  myself.  Sup- 
posing you  were  to  succeed  after  all — what  would  you 
do?" 

"What  would  I  do'?"  he  cried,  impetuously.  "I 
should  come  to  you — I  should  say " 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Frances  roguishly. 

"That" — Textor  bit  his  lip  savagely — "is  all  I  can 


MR.   COXE   IS   SENT   TO    BED.  IOC) 

say  now;  because  I  have  not  succeeded.  I  have  failed. 
I  have  no  right  to  say  much  that  I  should  like  to  say." 

"The  poor  failures,"  murmured  Frances.  "Can  they 
then  say  nothing?" 

"Yes,"  said  Textor  eagerly.  "They  can  ask  you — I 
mean,  they  can  ask  one — to  wait  a  little.  I  can  ask 
you — I  mean,  they  can  ask  one — to  let  them  try  again. 
I  can  ask  you — I  mean,  of  course,  they  can  ask  one — 
to  trust  them  a  little  longer — to  believe  in  them  a.  little 
longer.  Miss  Van  Taft — Frances — can  I?  I  mean, 
can  they — ask  that?" 

Frances  nodded  her  head  several  times. 

"Why,  Frances,  there  are  tears  in  your  eyes.  Look 
at  me — look  at  me  with  those  dear  eyes." 

"No,"  said  Frances,  smiling  through  her  tears,  and 
keeping  her  head  turned  obstinately  the  other  way. 
"You  mustn't." 

"But  I  shall,"  he  said. 

And  he  kissed  her. 


110  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  VERY   SMALL   PHILANTHROPIST. 

THREE  days  had  passed  since  Philanthropist  Hall 
had  been  thrown  open  to  the  world.  But  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  dyspeptic,  who  did  not  really  count,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  world  were  not  in  the  least  disturbed. 
There  had  been  a  few  inquiries  by  mail,  mostly  of  a 
frivolous  character,  and  these  Miss  Ruth  had  haughti- 
ly ignored.  She  had  also  ignored  an  enterprising 
reporter  who  had  been  sent  from  the  city  to  write  up 
the  humors  of  the  institution. 

But  however  discouraged  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie 
might  be,  they  preserved  an  outward  calm.  Every 
morning  they  prepared  lectures  for  the  philanthropists 
who  most  rudely  refused  to  come.  They  serenely  dis- 
cussed economic  questions  with  Textor.  They  busied 
themselves  in  bringing  about  the  municipal  reforms 
they  so  ardently  desired  in  the  village  of  Clifton  Hills. 
In  the  afternoons  they  took  long  drives  through  the 


A  VERY   SMALL  PHILANTHROPIST.  Ill 

delightful  roads  of  Westchester  County  in  the  three- 
seated  buckboard  which  the  reformers  had  hired  for 
the  pleasure  of  their  prospective  pupils. 

This  afternoon  they  had  been  for  a  long  drive.  Mr. 
Coxe  was  seated  solemnly  with  the  driver  in  the  front 
seat.  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  occupied  the  middle 
seat.  Frances  and  Textor  were  in  the  rear  seat.  As 
they  drove  up  to  the  Hall,  the  sisters  were  surprised  to 
see  a  little  girl  rocking  to  and  fro  in  one  of  the  big 
chairs  on  the  verandah.  By  her  side  was  a  small  trunk 
and  a  small  dress-suit  case. 

Before  they  could  alight  from  the  carriage,  the 
shock-headed  boy  rushed  out  of  the  front  door  in  evi- 
dent perturbation. 

"Boy,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  transfixing  the  little  girl 
with  a  severe  look,  "boy,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

"If  you  please,  mam,"  whispered  the  boy  in  buttons, 
"it's  a  flambest,  mam." 

"A  philanthropist,  boy,"  calmly  corrected  Miss 
Ruth,  alighting  from  the  carriage.  But  her  heart  beat 
wildly.  A  philanthropist  had  arrived  at  last,  then.  A 
real  one!  And  this  child  was  his  daughter,  of  course. 

"Yes,  man,  a  flambest — a  little  one,"     The  boy 


112  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

glanced  apologetically  at  the  small  individual  in  the 
rocking-chair,  who  returned  his  gaze  with  sedate  com- 
posure. 

"A  little  one!"  cried  Miss  Ruth. 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  mam.  And  she  wouldn't  let  me 
set  her  in  the  reception-room,  mam.  She  says  she's 
come  to  school,  mam.  But  Eliza  and  me  had  our 
doubts,  mam,  and  I  wouldn't  take  her  trunk  in  till  you 
come.  I  told  her  this  school  was  for  grown-ups.  But, 
my,  she  wouldn't  listen  to  me  no  how." 

The  boy  twisted  off  one  of  the  nickel-plated  buttons 
in  his  extreme  agitation. 

"This  child  come  to  school!"  echoed  Miss  Ruth  in 
bewilderment.  She  addressed  the  small  occupant  of 
the  rocking-chair. 

"Child,  is  that  your  trunk?    Is  that  your  valise?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes,  what?"  repeated  Miss  Ruth,  severely. 

"If  you  please  I  don't  know  what  until  you  tell  me. 
Because  you  haven't  told  me  whether  you  are  a  Miss 
or  a  Mrs.,  you  see.  But  I  expect  you  are  a  Miss  be- 
cause you  are  cross  and  old.  Aren't  you  a  Miss?" 

"I  am  Miss  Ruth — Miss  Ruth  Fairfax,"  replied  Miss 


A  VERY  SMALL  PHILANTHROPIST.  113 

Ruth,  trying  to  look  very  stern  and  succeeding  only 
moderately. 

"Thank  you.  And  I  am  Miss  Hattie — Miss  Hattie 
Car.  I  am  nine  years  old.  How  old  are  you?" 

"Who  brought  you  here,  Hattie,  dear?"  asked  Miss 
Elsie. 

Hattie  looked  at  Miss  Elsie  searchingly.  Then  she 
announced  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  "I  like  you.  I 
like  her  too."  She  nodded  towards  Miss  Ruth.  "But 
I  like  you  best." 

The  assembled  faculty  of  Philanthropist  Hall  stared 
at  one  another  aghast.  Even  Mr.  Coxe,  the  dyspeptic, 
gazed  at  the  new  arrival  with  a  melancholy  interest,  as 
if  she  were  a  strange  creature  in  a  zoological  garden. 

"But,  Hattie,"  continued  Miss  Elsie,  "tell  me,  who 
brought  you  here?" 

"A  man  with  a  bony  horse.  He  brought  me.  You 
could  see  the  horse's  legs  sticking  right  up  into  his 
back.  He  was  so  thin.  And  you  could  see  his  ribs. 
Just  like  auntie's  old  bustle  up  in  the  garret.  I  counted 
his  ribs.  There  were  six  on  each  side.  And  his  tongue 
hung  out,  and  his  ears  flapped  flippedy-flop." 

"That's  the  livery  horse,   mam,"   volunteered  the 


114  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

shock-headed  youth,  grinning.     "She's  described  his 
horse,  mam,  wonderful." 

"Never  mind  the  horsey,  darling,"  interrupted 
Frances.  "Won't  you  tell  us  who  sent  you  here?" 

"Horsey's  baby  talk,"  said  Hattie,  turning  up  her 
nose  contemptuously.  "I'm  not  a  baby.  I'm  a  little 
girl.  But  you  are  pretty.  I  like  you.  What  is  your 
name?" 

"My  name  is  Frances.  And  who  did  you  say  sent 
you  to  school  here?" 

"I  didn't  say  at  all  yet.  But  my  papa  did.  Now 
I've  told  you." 

"And  where  does  your  papa  live,  dearest?" 

"He  don't  live  anywhere  now,"  said  Hattie  mourn- 
fully. "He's  gone  away  off  and  off  and  off,  across  the 
sea.  To  Jerusalem,  I  guess,  or  to  China,  where  the 
laundry  men  live  with  the  pig-tails  like  mine.  Only 
their  pig-tails  are  harder  than  mine  is.  I've  felt  them. 
There  was  a  nice  Chinaman  once  who  used  to  let  me 
feel  his  for  a  cent." 

"What  an  extraordinary  child,"  murmured  Miss 
Ruth,  "to  pay  a  cent  to  feel  a  Chinaman's  queue.  Do 
you  think  she  is  a  little  flighty,  Mr.  Textor?" 


A  VERY   SMALL  PHILANTHROPIST.  115 

He  shook  his  head  amusedly.  "It  is  some  mistake. 
Of  course  she  has  not  been  sent  to  this  school."  He 
stooped  down  and  took  Hattie's  hand.  "And  why  did 
your  papa  not  bring-  you  here  himself,  Hattie?" 

Hattie  shyly  disengaged  her  hand. 

"I'm  not  introduced  to  you.  My  papa  says  it  isn't 
nice  for  little  girls  to  talk  to  young  men  unless  you  are 
introduced  to  them.  My  papa  didn't  bring  me  be- 
cause he's  gone  away  off.  My  auntie  didn't  bring  me 
because  she  lost  me,  I  guess.  Yes,  I  guess  I'm  lost — 
really  and  truly  lost." 

Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  held  a  troubled  confer- 
ence as  to  what  was  to  be  done. 

Hattie  meanwhile  had  been  regarding  Mr.  Coxe 
gravely. 

"Why  do  you  stare  at  me  like  that,  mister?"  she  de- 
manded. "You  look  like  an  owl,  you  are  so  solemn.  I 
saw  an  owl  once.  It  was  on  a  clock.  It  was  stuffed." 

Mr.  Coxe,  the  dyspeptic,  turned  away,  his  dignity 
sadly  ruffled. 

Miss  Ruth  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  suppose  that  we  could  not  send  the  child  away 
hungry,  even  if  we  knew  where  to  send  her  to.  And 


Il6  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

we  do  not.  Frances,  takes  the  child  upstairs  and  see 
that  she  is  washed  for  dinner." 

Hattie  clasped  the  hand  of  Miss  Frances  with  cheer- 
ful alacrity,  and  tripped  upstairs,  leaving  the  assembled 
faculty  of  Philanthropist  Hall  somewhat  bewildered. 

"If  we  do  not  hear  from  or  of  her  relatives  by  to- 
morrow night,  Mr.  Textor,  you  must  go  to  the  city 
and  consult  a  detective." 


MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED   FRANCESS." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED  FRANCESS." 

AND  in  the  meanwhile  Hattie  amused  herself  after 
her  own  fashion,  and  managed  to  embarrass  Textor 
and  Frances  with  fiendish  ingenuity  and  to  unduly  en- 
rage Miss  Ruth. 

Because  the  next  day  the  proprietors  of  Philanthro- 
pist Hall  were  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  by 
seeing  this  sentence  written  in  chalk  on  the  piazza. 
steps,  on  the  dining-room  table,  on  the  mantle-piece, 
on  the  window  sills,  on  the  shutters — everywhere — 

"Mister  Textore  Kised  Francess." 

Miss  Ruth  was  so  shocked  that  she  was  confined  to 
her  room  with  a  severe  headache.  "That  settles  it," 
she  declared  grimly  to  her  sister,  who  bent  over  her  in 
anxious  solicitude.  "Mr.  Textor  must  go  to  the  city 
at  once.  He  must  consult  the  directory,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, see  all  the  Cars  in  New  York  City.  If  the  city 
directory  does  not  help  him,  he  must  engage  the  ser- 


Il8  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

vices  of  a  detective.  But  that  child  must  go.  Bring 
her  in  to  me.  She  shall  be  shut  in  the  closet  for  an 
hour." 

Miss  Elsie  led  the  culprit  into  the  bedroom.  Hattie 
appeared,  sucking  the  corner  of  her  dirty  pinafore,  sob- 
bing gently. 

"If  you  please,  Miss  Ruth,  he  did  kiss  her.  I  saw 
him,"  she  cried. 

"You  are  a  naughty  child,"  scolded  Miss  Ruth.  ;'Go 
in  that  closet,  and  don't  you  dare  to  move  or  to  speak 
until  I  let  you  out.  Go!" 

"She  is  incorrigible,"  declared  Miss  Elsie,  who  had 
been  standing  solemnly  by. 

Hattie  approached  the  closet  with  an  air  of  great  in- 
terest. She  stepped  inside  as  eagerly  as  if  it  were  a 
veritable  palace  of  delights.  But  she  took  pains  to 
leave  the  door  just  enough  ajar  to  permit  a  broad 
chink  of  light  to  stream  through  the  crack. 

"Yes,  she  is  quite  intractable,"  declared  Miss  Elsie, 
closing  the  closet  door  tight.  "And  I  am  disappointed 
in  Mr.  Textor." 

For  five  minutes  Hattie  was  beautifully  silent,  and 
Miss  Ruth  was  able  to  resume  the  composition  of  her 


"MISTER  TEXTORE   KlSED  FRANCESS."       119 

poem,  "If  We  Knew."  In  poetry  alone  could  Miss 
Ruth  find  solace  for  the  petty  distractions  of  this 
naughty  world. 

A  timid  knock  at  the  closet  door  broke  the  thread 
of  her  thought. 

"Please,  Miss  Ruth,"  Hattie  asked,  putting  her  head 
outside  the  closet,  "may  I  play  I'm  a  wicked  prisoner 
and  going  to  be  hung  for  murdering  peoples?" 

"You  may  shut  that  door  and  go  inside  immediately, 
miss." 

"Thank  you,  mam.  I  will  shut  the  door  very  gently 
so  as  to  not  make  your  head  ache." 

Miss  Ruth  resumed  her  poetical  labors. 

"Such  a  child,"  she  murmured. 

She  had  written  the  second  stanza  when  the  doer 
was  opened  once  more. 

"If  you  please,  will  you  give  me  a  word  that  goes 
with  Car?"  asked  eagerly  the  owner  of  that  name. 

"Goes  with  Car?"  repeated  Miss  Ruth.  "Do  you 
mean  a  rhyme  for  Car?" 

"If  you  please,  Miss  Ruth." 

Miss  Ruth  felt  that  she  ought  not  to  gratify  the  re- 
quest, but  she  recognized  the  kindred  spirit. 

"Tar,  pa,  ma" — 


120  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"Ma.  That's  just  the  word,"  cried  Hattie,  rejoicing. 
Again  the  door  was  shut. 

"And  will  you  please  give  a  word  that  goes  with 
name?"  asked  the  Small  Adventuress  a  few  minutes 
later. 

"Blame!"  snapped  out  Miss  Ruth.  The  interruptions 
were  a  serious  menace  to  her  own  poetical  inspirations. 
"If  you  interrupt  me  again,  I  shall  slap  you  hard, 
miss." 

Now  there  was  a  very  long  silence — for  at  least  three 
minutes.  Then  the  door  was  opened  very,  very  softly, 
and  Hattie's  solemn  eyes  rested  on  those  of  Miss 
Ruth's,  awaiting  permission  to  speak. 

"Well?"  cried  Miss  Ruth  at  last. 

"And  you  won't  spank  me?"  demanded  the  Small 
Adventuress,  cautiously. 

"Well?"  repeated  Miss  Ruth  impatiently. 

"I've  composed  a  beautiful  poem.  Would  you  like 
me  to  sing  it  to  you?" 

"I  should  like  you  to  shut  that  door  and  not  speak 
again,  miss." 

"No,  mam.  But  you  won't  be  angry  if  I  think,  will 
you?  Because  I  can't  help  thinking  what  a  nice  time 
I  shall  have  when  you  let  me  out." 


11  MISTER  TEXTORE   KISED   FKANCESS."        121 

"Hattie,  do  you  intend  to  be  quiet  or  do  you  wish 
me  to  call  Eliza  and  have  you  spanked?" 

"Quiet,  if  you  please,"  said  Hattie,  after  careful  con- 
sideration. 

"Then  let  there  be  silence,"  commanded  Miss  Ruth. 

And  there  was  silence.  The  possible  advent  of  Eliza 
was  not  a  matter  to  be  trifled  with.  Hattie  played  she 
was  going  to  sleep,  and  succeeded  in  being  admirably 
realistic. 

The  silence  put  Miss  Ruth  in  a  better  temper.  So, 
after  Hattie  had  been  given  a  tea  of  bread  and  water, 
she  was  released,  washed,  clad  in  a  clean  pinafore  and 
permitted  to  sit  by  Miss  Ruth's  bedside. 

"And  please  may  I  read  the  Scriptures  to  you,  if  I 
am  very  good?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  rejoicing  at  this  change  of 
heart. 

"And  can  I  explain  them,  too?" 

Miss  Ruth  nodded  gravely. 

Hattie  opened  the  Bible  at  random. 

"  'Heaven  is  His  throne.  Earth  is  His  foot-stool/  " 
she  read  in  an  awed  voice. 

"Miss  Ruth?" 


122  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Mustn't  He  have  long  legs?" 

"Go  on  with  your  reading,  child." 

"  'Wisdom  is  better  than  rubbarb,' "  read  Hattie, 
opening  the  Bible  again,  after  shutting  her  eyes  very 
tight  to  give  a  spice  of  uncertainty  to  the  reading. 

"Rubies,"  corrected  Miss  Ruth. 

"What  is  rubies?" 

"Jewels,  dear." 

.  "Like  those  in  the  crown  of  the  saints  in  the  New 
Jerusalem?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  the  streets  of  the  New  Jerusalem  like  this 
watch?"  Hattie  was  feeling  Miss  Ruth's  timepiece  with 
her  fingers. 

"Yes;  gold,  like  that." 

"Mustn't  they  be  slippery,  Miss  Ruth?"  remarked 
the  Small  Adventuress,  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I  had  a  beautiful  dream  about  the  New  Jerusalem 
when  I'd  got  tired  of  playing  murderer  and  writing 
poetry." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  curiously. 


"MISTER   TEXTORE   KISED   FRANCESS."        123 

"I  dreamed  I  wasn't  lost,  after  all.  Or,  any  way,  that 
you  found  out  where  I  was  going  to  school.  'Now,  you 
must  go  to  school/  you  said.  'Oh,  but  it's  so  awful 
windy,  Miss  Ruth,'  I  said.  'It's  blowing,  and  blow- 
ing, and  blowing.  If  I  were  to  go  to  school  to-day 
it  would  blow  me  up  to  the  New  Jerusalem.'  But  you 
were  real  mad,  and  so  I  went  to  school.  And  it  blew 
and  blew  and  blew.  And,  by-and-bye,  I  went  clear 
up  to  the  New  Jerusalem.  And  what  do  you  suppose 
1  did  when  I  got  up  there?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear." 

"I  gave  God  one  good  hug,  and  I  took  just  one  fruit 
(that  wasn't  wicked,  because  Eve  took  two),  and  then 
I  took  one  nice  look  around  and  then  I  came  down 
again.  That's  all." 

"That  was  a  very  nice  dream,  dear.  Were  you  very 
unhappy  in  the  closet,  dearest?" 

"No;  not  so  very,"  sighed  Hattie.  "Especially  after 
I  had  my  tea." 

"Why  not,  my  dear?" 

"Because  I  cut  up  my  bread  and  butter  into  tiny, 
dear  little  pieces,  and  I  played  I  was  at  a  party.  Did 
you  hear  me  singing,  Miss  Ruth?" 


124  THE  TWO    WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Yes.  It  was  very  naughty  to  sing  when  T  told  you 
to  be  quiet.  What  were  you  singing,  Hattie?" 

"It  was  a  poem.  I  wrote  it  while  I  was  in  the  closet. 
Would  you  like  me  to  sing  it  to  you?" 

"Yes,  dear;  very  much." 

"I  hope  it  won't  make  you  feel  too  bad,"  remarked 
the  author,  considerately.  "Because  it's  about  you  a 
little;  but  most  of  it's  about  me." 

"I  will  try  not  to  feel  too  badly,"  promised  Miss 
Ruth,  smiling. 

Thus  encouraged,  Hattie  sung  her  poem  in  a  very 
melancholy  voice  to  a  very  melancholy  and  original 
tune. 

"Once  there  was  a  little  girl;  her  name  was  Hattie  Car; 

She  was  so  good,  she  died  and  went  to  heaven  to  see 
her  ma. 

'Why  do  you  cry,  my  little  girl?'  an  angel  said  to  her. 

'Because  they're  all  unkind  to  me,  and  that's  the  rea- 
son, sir; 

And  that's  the  reason,  sir.' 

"  'Tell  me  the  names  of  those  cruel  folks.'    The  angel 

frowned  so  stern. 
'My  flaming  sword  shall  cut  their  heads  and  hearts; 

I'll  make  them  learn.' 


"  MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED   FRANCESS."        12$ 

'Oh,  no,  kind  sir,'  said  Hattie  Car;  'I  cannot  tell  the 

names. 
I  do  forgive  them,  one  and  all;  myself  shall  take  the 

blames. 

—Myself  shall  take  the  blames.'  " 

"Why,  that's  beautiful,"  said  Miss  Ruth. 

"And  it  don't  make  you  feel  bad?" 

"Not  at  all,  dear." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  Hattie  sighed,  heavily.  "I  hoped 
it  would  make  you  feel  bad.  You  are  sure  it  don't?" 

"Well,  perhaps  just  the  tiniest  little  bit,"  said  Miss 
Ruth,  generously,  hoping  to  appease  the  soul  of  the 
Small  Poetess.  "I  write  poetry  myself,  sometimes, 
Hattie." 

"Oh,  do  you?  Oh,  please,  please  read  me  some.  I 
just  'dore  poetry." 

Thus  urged  (and,  really,  Miss  Ruth  needed  a  very 
little  urging  to  read  her  own  poetry),  Miss  Ruth  re- 
cited the  moral  effusion  she  had  composed  while  Hat- 
tie  was  in  the  closet. 

"It  is  called  'If  You  Knew,'  "  announced  Miss  Ruth. 

"That's  a  very  nice  name,"  said  Hattie,  with  a  critical 
air. 


126  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

IF  YOU  KNEW. 

"  'If  you  knew  what  hearts  were  breaking, 

If  you  knew  what  others  thought, 
You  would  soothe  their  wearied  aching 
With  a  kindness,  all  unsought! 

You  would  soothe  the  throbbing  forehead; 

You  would  calm  the  troubled  breast; 
And,  dispelling  passions  horrid, 

With  a  balm  of  peace  and  rest — 

You  would  reach  them  hands  of  pity; 

Lift  them  up  from  shame  and  sin; 
Cheer  them  onward  to  the  City, 

Where  the  angels  dwell  within.'  " 

As  Miss  Ruth  recited  the  last  stanza,  she  pointed 
solemnly  to  the  ceiling.  Hattie's  reverent  eyes  looked 
up  to  the  chandelier. 

"Oh,"  cried  Hattie;  "it  just  makes  me  feel  good 
all  over.  My  Uncle  Jack  used  to  make  poetry,  too; 
but  I  don't  think  Uncle  Jack's  poetry  is  as  good  as 
yours." 

"Uncle  Jack?"  echoed  Miss  Ruth.  "Then  you  have 
an  Uncle  Jack?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Hattie,  enthusiastically.  "He  draws 
pictures — the  funniest  pictures  you  ever  saw.  He'd 
draw  you  so  funny,  people  would  laugh  into  splits," 


"MISTER  TEXTORE    KISED   FRANCESS."        12? 

Miss  Ruth  was  glad  enough  to  gain  some  intelli- 
gence of  Hattie  Car's  relatives.  So  she  said  coaxingly, 
"Do  you  know  where  Uncle  Jack  lives,  Hattie?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  do,"  replied  Hattie,  surprised  at 
the  doubt  expressed  in  Miss  Ruth's  voice.  "Why,  I 
could  take  you  right  there." 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  with  sudden  anger,  "why 
did  you  not  mention  him  before,  child?" 

"Why,  nobody  asked  me  about  Uncle  Jack.  I 
could  go  right  to  Uncle  Jack's." 

"Are  you  sure?"  demanded  Miss  Ruth,  searchingly. 

"Very  sure,"  asserted  Hattie,  stoutly. 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  grimly,  "you  shall  show 
Mr.  Textor  the  way  there." 

At  this  Hattie  looked  at  Miss  Ruth  soberly. 

"Now,  you  are  quite  sure  you  know  where  your 
Uncle  Jack  lives,  Hattie?  Be  very  careful,"  warned 
Miss  Ruth,  who  had  her  suspicions. 

"Yes,  I'm  most  sure,"  declared  Hattie.  "And  shall 
I  ride  on  the  cars  and  see  all  the  shops,  and  perhaps 
buy  candy,  if  I  show  Mr.  Textor  where  Uncle  Jack 
is?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  promised  Miss  Ruth, 


128  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Then  I'm  quite,  quite  sure  I  know  where  Uncle 

\ 
Jack  is.     But  I  couldn't  exactly  describe  it,  you  know. 

I'd  have  to  ride  on  the  cars  and  see  the  shops  so  as 
to  know  the  way." 

"Very  well.  And  now  you  can  run  out  and  play 
with  your  dolls.  And  tell  Mr.  Textor  I  wish  to  see 
him." 


THE  THREE  MINCE  HES. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  THREE  MINCE  PIES. 

WHEN  Textor  went  to  the  city  with  Hattie  in  search 
of  Uncle  Jack,  Frances  was  left  to  take  care  of  Mr. 
Coxe,  the  dyspeptic. 

Miss  Elsie  viewed  the  arrangement  not  without  con- 
cern. 

"You  remember  Mrs.  Coxe's  warning,  sister,"  she 
had  expostulated.  "  'If  I  ain't  back  in  a  week,  look 
out.' " 

"Nonsense,"  Miss  Ruth  had  answered,  sharply. 
"The  man  is  gentleness  itself.  I  could  guide  him  with 
my  little  finger  along  his  milky  way  of  abstinence. 
Besides,  the  week  is  not  yet  passed.  Only  five  days. 
Frances  will  have  no  difficulty  whatever." 

Frances  herself  had  no  reason  to  believe  that  the 
dyspeptic  would  go  on  the  rampage.  As  Mrs.  Coxe 
had  said  would  be  the  case,  Mr.  Coxe  had  been  meek. 
He  had  imbibed  his  peptonized  milk  and  nibbled  at 


I3O  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

his  soda  crackers  with  a  placidity  that  was  more  than 
lamb-like.  It  was  cherubic.  He  had  shown  no  dis- 
position whatever  to  wander  off  into  forbidden  paths 
after  pie  or  peanuts.  "Mr.  Coxe,"  Frances  had  en- 
thusiastically declared,  "is  a  dyspeptic  of  absolutely 
angelic  disposition." 

But  the  lull  comes  before  the  storm. 

Textor  had  not  left  the  Hall  half  an  hour  before  the 
dyspeptic  refused  to  partake  of  his  customary  nourish- 
ment. When  he  was  coaxed  by  Miss  Elsie,  he  petu- 
lantly tipped  the  plate  of  crackers  over  and  spilled  the 
milk  on  the  table-cloth.  The  expostulations  of  the 
maiden  aunts  and  of  Frances  he  received  with  stony 
indifference. 

"I  shall  slap  him  soon,  if  he  doesn't  behave,"  said 
Frances,  tearfully.  "What  can  make  him  so  mean? 
Aren't  we  kind  to  you?"  she  asked  of  the  disgruntled 
dyspeptic. 

Mr.  Coxe  did  not  speak.  But  he  looked  at  her  with 
the  gaze  of  a  hunted  animal.  He  opened  his  mouth 
twice  and  put  one  hand  on  his  stomach. 

"It's  pie,"  said  Frances,  tragically,  to  the  maiden 
aunts,  who  were  deeply  grieved  at  Mr.  Coxe's  man- 


THE  THREE   MINCE   PIES.  131 

ners.  "But  you  can't  have  pie,"  she  exclaimed  to 
their  unwelcome  guest.  "You  know  you  cannot.  It 
would  make  you  ill.  We  would  give  it  to  you  if  we 
dared.  But  your  wife  has  forbidden  you  to  eat  it. 
Still,  if  you'll  be  very  good,  and  won't  be  a  grumpy, 
disagreeable  old  thing,  you  shall  have  some  nice  tapi- 
oca pudding." 

But  Mr.  Coxe  was  to  be  satisfied  by  no  illusory 
promise  of  tapioca  pudding.  He  was  after  higher 
game  than  tapioca  pudding;  and  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  show  by  his  conduct  that  he  did  not  consider  the 
reward  promised  worth  the  effort  of  being  good. 

He  hurled  the  balls  about  in  the  bowling-alley  in  the 
most  reckless,  savage  fashion,  aiming  apparently  at  the 
legs  of  the  shock-headed  boy  in  the  nickel-plated  but- 
tons (No.  2),  rather  than  at  the  nine-pins.  He  cheated 
at  chess.  Twice  he  put  his  queen  back  on  the  board 
after  he  had  legitimately  lost  her.  When  Frances,  los- 
ing patience,  insisted  that  he  play  fairly,  he  closed  up 
the  board  and  swept  the  chessmen  all  about  the  room. 
When  Frances  walked  up  and  down  the  piazza,  with 
him,  sometimes  he  walked  only  half  the  length  of  one 
side  of  the  piazza;  sometimes  he  walked  completely 


132  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

around;  sometimes  he  lagged;  sometimes  he  accele- 
rated his  pace  almost  to  a  run,  and  then,  without  any 
warning  whatever,  paused  obstinately  at  the  corners. 

"It  is  perfectly  useless  attempting  to  pacify  him," 
declared  Frances,  at  length,  flinging  herself  breath- 
lessly into  a  chair.  "I  am  quite  exhausted.  I  shall 
amuse  him  no  longer." 

"But,  in  this  dangerous  mood,  surely  he  ought  to  be 
watched,"  said  Miss  Elsie.  "He  looks  very  desper- 
ate." 

"I  wish  he  would  gorge  himself  to  death,  and  have 
done  with  his  miserable  existence,"  said  Frances,  cast- 
ing a  resentful  glance  at  the  dyspeptic,  who  was  con- 
tinuing his  eccentric  evolutions  on  the  piazza. 

"But,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  "we  must  not  forget  that  he 
is  a  fellow-creature.  We  cannot  shirk  our  duty.  I 
am  sorry  now  that  I  let  Mr.  Textor  go  to  the  city. 
But  we  must  do  the  best  we  can.  We  must  not  let 
him  out  of  our  sight  for  an  instant.  I  think  the  best 
plan  will  be  for  each  of  us  to  seat  ourselves 
at  a  corner  of  the  piazza  with  our  sewing.  We  can 
then  command  a  view  of  the  piazza  on  every  side,  and 
see  that  he  does  not  attempt  to  escape  and  get  into 


THE  THREE  MINCE  PlES.  I$3 

mischief.  I  do  not  deny  that  his  symptoms  appear 
most  serious." 

This  advice  of  Miss  Ruth  was  at  once  put  into  exe- 
cution. There  were,  of  course,  four  corners  to  the 
piazza.,  but  Miss  Elsie,  as  the  most  conscientious,  was 
given  the  honor  of  keeping  her  eyes  on  two  lengths 
of  the  piazza  instead  of  one. 

These  manoeuvres  evidently  chafed  the  dyspeptic. 
The  vigilant  guard  of  the  maiden  aunts  and  of  Frances 
made  him  fuss  and  fume.  He  ejaculated  frequent  in- 
articulate groans  of  rage.  He  fiddled  with  the  flaps  of 
his  frock  coat. 

"Depend  upon  it,  Frances,"  whispered  Miss  Ruth, 
"that  man  is  up  to  something.  We  must  not  let  him 
out  of  our  sight  for  a  single  instant." 

But  the  May  afternoon  was  very  warm.  The  croaks 
of  the  frogs  were  so  drowsy  and  contented,  the  bees 
swarmed  about  the  honeysuckle  on  the  piazza  pillars 
with  so  musical  a  murmur,  and  the  gentle  breeze 
fanned  the  pine  trees  so  slumberously,  that  Miss  El- 
sie's head  began  to  nod  over  her  sewing,  and  she 
forgot  all  about  the  unruly  dyspeptic.  Miss  Elsie, 
the  advocate  of  never-ceasing  vigilance  concerning  the 
dyspeptic's  welfare,  slept  at  her  post  of  duty. 


134  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

Perhaps  not  more  than  three  minutes,  but  long 
enough  to  permit  Mr.  Coxe  to  escape.  She  remem- 
bered nothing  until  Miss  Ruth  shook  her  vigorously 
and  demanded  where  Mr.  Coxe  had  gone  to. 

"Mr.  Coxe?"  stammered  Miss  Elsie,  rubbing  her 
eyes.  "Is  he  not  on  the  piazza?" 

"He  has  escaped!"  said  Miss  Ruth,  sternly.  "We 
supposed  him  to  be  on  one  of  your  sides." 

"Escaped!"  Miss  Elsie  started  up,  wide  awake  now. 
"Escaped!  Oh,  sister!" 

"I  expect  he  has  gone  on  the  rampage,"  Frances 
added,  grimly. 

"I  will  have  the  bay  put  in  the  surrey  at  once," 
cried  Miss  Ruth.  "We  must  not  stand  here  talking. 
We  must  search  for  him.  If  we  are  prompt,  we  may 
catch  him  before  he  can  do  himself  much  harm." 

"I  do  not  think,"  remarked  Frances  thoughtfully, 
when  they  were  seated  in  the  carnage,  and  yet  doubt- 
ful in  which  direction  to  drive,  "that  there  can  be  any 
doubt  where  he  has  gone." 

"Then  tell  us,"  commanded  Miss  Ruth.  "Tell  us  at 
once." 

"Why,  to  the  grocery  store!" 


THE  THREE  MINCE  PIES.  135 

"Drive  to  Gibbs's,"  screamed  Miss  Ruth  to  the 
coachman.  "As  fast  as  you  can  without  tipping  us 
over." 

Miss  Elsie  had  turned  pale  with  apprehension  at 
the  suggestion  of  her  niece.  "Do  you  mean  that  he  is 
after  pie?"  she  whispered. 

Frances  nodded. 

"Oh,"  cried  Miss  Elsie,  clasping  her  hands,  "if  any- 
thing happens  to  him  I  shall  never  forgive  myself." 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  Aunt  Elsie.  We  shall  be  in 
time  to  prevent  him  from  eating  very  many  pies." 

Indeed,  as  the  surrey  halted  before  the  village  gro- 
cery, Miss  Ruth  clutched  Frances'  arm  convulsively. 

"Frances,  were  those  not  his  coat-tails  flying  around 
the  counter?"  she  exclaimed. 

"And  I  think  I  saw  his  silk  hat,"  said  Frances  with 
suppressed  excitement. 

"But  supposing  that  he  refuses  to  listen  to  us — sup- 
posing that  he  refuses  to  come  back,"  cried  Miss  Elsie 
hysterically. 

"Then  I  shall  get  the  village  constable  and  have  him 
arrested,"  said  Frances,  firmly. 

"But  on  what  pretext?" 


136  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"That  he  is  a  moral  imbecile,  Aunt  Ruth.  I  shall 
fetch  him  without  difficulty.  You  will  see.  Wait  for 
me  with  the  carriage  here." 

The  grocer  was  standing  behind  his  counter  with 
his  thumbs  stuck  in  the  arm-holes  of  his  waist-coat. 
He  bowed  affably. 

'Good-afternoon,  miss.  Beautiful  weather  we're 
havin',  eh,  miss?  Lovely!  Lovely!" 

Frances  did  not  respond  as  to  the  state  cf  the 
weather.  She  glanced  searchingly  about  the  store  for 
signs  of  the  truant  dyspeptic.  Then  she  grasped  Mr. 
Gibbs  by  his  shirt  sleeves. 

"Have  you  sold  any  pies  to  any  one  lately?"  she  said 
vehemently,  hoping  to  startle  him  into  a  confession,  if 
he  was  guilty. 

"Pies,  mum?"  Mr.  Gibbs's  face  assumed  an  expres- 
sion of  innocent  wonderment.  "Yes,  mum.  Three 
mince,  no  lemon — because  we  was  out  of  them — and 
a  pumpkin." 

"Who  to?"  asked  Frances,  oblivious  of  grammar  in 
her  anxiety. 

Mr.  Gibbs  hesitated. 

"Well,  there  was  a  good  many.  I  don't  know  as  I 
can  remember,  miss," 


THE  THREE   MINCE   PIES.  137 

v'Four  is  not  a  very  large  number  of  persons  to  re- 
member, Mr.  Gibbs,"  said  Frances,  suspiciously. 

"Four  is  a  tolerable  amount  to  mind  when  you're 
busy,  miss." 

"But  you  have  sold  none  to  Mr.  Coxe — our  Mr. 
Coxe — up  at  the  Hall." 

"I  can't  say  as  I  know  the  gent,"  remarked  the  gro- 
cer imperturbably. 

"He  is  a  thin,  melancholy  gentleman,  dressed  in  a 
frock  coat  and  a  silk  hat." 

"That's  tolerable  warm  gear  for  a  hot  day  like  this, 
miss." 

"Mr.  Gibbs,  you  are  not  to  trifle  with  me.  I  am  not 
in  a  mood  to  be  trifled  with.  This  is  a  matter,  per- 
haps, of  life  or  death.  I  repeat,  have  you  sold  any 
pies  to  such  a  gentleman  as  I  have  described?" 

The  grocer's  eyes  wandered  to  the  rear  of  the  store, 
and  then  they  wavered,  and  wandered  back  to  those  of 
Frances. 

"No,  mum,"  he  declared  boldly. 
"Be  very  careful  you  are  telling  the  truth,  Mr.  Gibbs. 
If  you  have  sold  Mr.  Coxe  any  pies,  not  only  will  you 
t>e  directly  responsible  for  his  doctor's  bill,  or  more 


138  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

likely  for  his  undertaker's  bill,  but  never  again  will  any- 
one at  the  Hall  buy  a  pound  of  flour  from  you  or  an 
ounce  of  cinnamon." 

"But  they're  good  pies,"  quavered  the  grocer  falter- 
ingly.  "They're  Lumley's  best,  mum.  No  lard  in 
'em.  Crust  as  crisp  as  a  new  dollar  bill,  and  puffickly 
digestible.  Wouldn't  hurt  a  child  in  arms,  miss." 

"So,"  said  Frances  sternly,  "you  confess  that  you 
have  sold  him  the  pies." 

"Indeed,  miss,"  protested  the  groceryman. 

"Don't  deny  it.  Don't  you  dare  to  deny  it.  Mr. 
Gibbs,  you  have  told  me  a  falsehood.  I  am  surprised 
at  you.  Didn't  I  get  out  an  injunction  against  your 
selling  Mr.  Coxe  any  pies?  Didn't  I  warn  you  that 
you  would  be  that  man's  murderer  if  you  did?" 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  miss?  But  p'raps  he  ain't  de- 
voured 'em  all." 

"Where  is  he?  Bring  him  forth  at  once,"  com- 
manded Frances. 

"Indeed,  I  didn't  dream  of  no  harm.  Indeed,  I 
didn't,"  pleaded  the  grocer. 

"While  you  are  talking,  he  may  have  eaten  them. 
Where  is  he?" 


THE  THREE   MINCE   PIES.  139 

In-  reply  the  grocer  stooped  down  and  pulled  vigor- 
ously at  something  from  under  the  counter.  After 
considerable  effort  on  the  part  of  the  grocer,  the  mel- 
ancholy eyes  of  Mr.  Coxe  looked  over  the  counter. 

"What  you  done  with  them  three  pies?"  beseeched 
the  grocer.  "Tell  the  lady  what  you  done  with  them." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Coxe  was  standing  erect  behind 
the  counter.  He  vouchsafed  no  reply.  But  the  tri- 
umphant leer  on  his  lips  left  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of 
Frances  that  the  pies  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh. 

"Not  a  crumb  left,"  said  the  grocer,  looking  at  the 
dyspeptic  with  gloomy  forebodings.  "What  we  goin' 
to  do  about  it,  miss?" 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  repeated 
Frances  energetically.  "Get  him  home  at  once.  He 
must  be  put  to  bed.  He  will  have  the  cramps  dread- 
fully in  a  few  minutes.  And  Mr.  Gibbs,  if  you  would 
atone  for  this  criminal  abetting  of  yours  in  this  poor 
man's  death,  you  will  drive  for  the  doctor  as  quickly 
as  you  can." 

Mr.  Gibbs  and  Frances  dragged  the  reluctant  dys- 
peptic to  the  carriage. 

"He's  eaten  three  pies!"  cried  Frances  to  the  maiden 
a.unts, 


I4-O  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Drive  home  as  quickly  as  you  possibly  can,"  cried 
Miss  Ruth.  "And  never  mind,  James,  if  you  do  tip  us 
over." 

"Go  in,"  commanded  Frances,  when  they  had  ar- 
rived at  the  Hall,  after  a  drive  of  dizzy  peril.  "Go  in, 
you  foolish,  greedy,  obstinate  old  man.  I  shall  tell 
Mrs.  Coxe  how  naughty  you  have  been.  Go  to  bed  at 
once.  The  doctor  will  be  here  presently.  Go  to  bed 
at  once." 

Mr.  Coxe  started  to  obey  with  so  cheerful  an  alac- 
rity that  he  forgot  to  hang  his  silk  hat  on  the  rack  in 
the  hallway.  Indeed,  so  agitated  was  he  that  he  quite 
forgot  to  remove  it  from  his  head. 

"Please  leave  your  hat  on  the  rack,"  said  Miss  Ruth 
crossly. 

Mr.  Coxe  took  no  notice  whatever. 

Frances  was  determined  that  for  once  the  dyspeptic 
should  obey  orders.  Her  patience  was  thoroughly 
exhausted.  So  she  said  very  quietly,  but  very  firmly, 
"Mr.  Coxe,  did  you  hear  my  aunt  speak  to  you?  Put 
your  hat  on  the  rack  immediately." 

Still  he  took  no  notice. 

"Has  James  driven  around  to  the  stables  yet?"  asked 


THE  THREE   MINCE   PIES.  14! 

Frances  of  Miss  Elsie.  "If  he  has  not,  will  you  call 
him,  please." 

Mr.  Coxe  now  appeared  extremely  agitated.  But 
he  did  not  remove  his  hat.  He  attempted  to  pass 
Frances  in  a  feverish,  troubled  haste  that  was  ominous. 

Frances  planted  herself  in  front  of  him. 

"No,  Mr.  Coxe.  You  will  not  ascend  these  stairs 
until  you  remove  your  hat." 

Her  temper  was  up.  She  was  very  angry,  and  would 
have  resisted  the  stubborn  dyspeptic  by  force  if  it  was 
necessary. 

Instead  of  complying  with  her  request  however, 
Mr.  Coxe  jammed  his  hat  more  firmly  than  ever  on  his 
head.  Then,  clutching  the  brims  with  both  hands,  he 
advanced  swiftly  towards  the  door. 

Frances  seized  his  coat-tails  desperately.  Now  she 
understood  the  crafty  leer  that  had  wreathed  the  dys- 
peptic's lips  during  the  drive  from  the  grocery. 

"Aunt  Ruth — Aunt  Elsie!"  she  screamed,  "call  for 
help!  James!  James!  Where  is  James?  Oh,  I  can't 
hold  him!  He  is  running  away!  Help  me,  Aunt 
Ruth!" 

But  the  united  strength  of  the  two  maiden  aunts  and 


142  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

of  Frances  applied  to  Mr.  Coxe's  coat-tails  could  not 
hold  him.  He  was  desperate.  He  was  fighting  for 
a  great  stake,  and  unnatural  strength  nerved  the  dys- 
peptic's muscles.  With  a  final  wrench,  still  holding 
tightly  to  the  brim  of  his  hat,  he  was  free.  He  ran  at 
full  speed  towards  the  woods. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  obstinacy?"  exclaimed  Miss 
Ruth,  panting. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  Miss 
Elsie. 

"Matter!"  repeated  Frances.  "Are  you  both  blind? 
Don't  you  see  he  is  running  away,  and  in  his  hat " 

"In  his  hat,"  repeated  the  maiden  aunts,  bewildered. 

"Are  the  three  pies!" 

"Frances!"  cried  Miss  Ruth,  sinking  helplessly  in  a 
chair. 

"It  is  no  time  to  give  way  to  our  emotions,"  said 
Frances.  "I  must  follow  him.  He  must  not  eat  those 
pies.  Send  James  to  come,  too." 

With  these  parting  commands,  Frances  gathered  up 
her  skirts  and  swiftly  pursued  the  runaway  dyspeptic. 

The  distressing  conviction  that,  if  caught,  the  prey 
in  his  silk  hat  would  be  confiscated,  spurred  Mr.  Coxe 


THE   THREE   MINCE   PIES.  143 

to  heroic  efforts  to  escape.  He  had  no  clear  idea 
where  he  was  running  to.  To  be  let  alone  for  five 
blissful  minutes,  that  was  his  modest  prayer.  He  could 
easily  dispose  of  the  contents  of  his  hat  in  five  minutes. 

But  Frances  had  no  intention  of  permitting  him  to 
enjoy  five  minutes'  solitude  if  she  could  help  it.  She 
held  her  skirts  high  above  the  brambles,  and  shouted 
"Stop,  thief!"  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  "If,"  thought 
Frances,  as  she  ran,  "I  cannot  catch  him,  I  can  at  least 
make  him  run  so  fast  that  those  pies  bumping  about 
in  his  silk  hat  will  be  crushed  and  ruined.  I  wish  they 
were  pies  with  liquid  fruit." 

Fortune  favored  the  dyspeptic  when  he  was  de- 
spairing most.  He  had  heedlessly  run  out  of  the  shel- 
ter of  the  friendly  woods ;  he  was  about  to  double  back 
on  his  tracks  in  the  woods  again,  when  he  heard  the 
whistle  of  a  locomotive.  He  ran  mechanically  on, 
hoping  for  a  barn  or  hayrack.  To  his  unspeakable 
thankfulness  and  delight,  he  ran  absolutely  against  a 
train  that  was  steaming  slowly  out  of  the  Clifton  Hills. 

A  bound  and  a  desperate  clutch  at  the  iron  railing 
above  the  steps;  and  Mr.  Coxe  was  saved.  Frances, 
baffled  and  breathless,  could  only  stand  there  and  im- 


144  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

plore  James  to  say  something  very  emphatic,  indeed, 
beginning  with  D.  James  obliged  her  with  great 
heartiness  and  good-will. 

But  even  as  she  and  James  stood  there,  something 
happened  that  took  a  little  of  the  sting  out  of  the  an- 
noyance she  felt  at  the  dyspeptic's  escape. 

There  were  three,  soft,  faint  splashes  at  their  feet. 
They  thought  the  dyspeptic  was  flinging  something  at 
them.  Then,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  herself  and 
James,  they  perceived  three  bruised,  ruined  pies. 

The  dyspeptic,  beside  himself  with  joy  at  his  provi- 
dential escape,  had,  in  his  frenzied  delight,  waved  his 
hat  jeeringly  at  his  baffled  pursuers.  The  result  was 
simple  and  natural. 

As  the  train  pulled  swiftly  out  of  the  station,  the 
dyspeptic  looked  back,  dumb  and  hopeless. 

And  Frances  and  James  stared  in  astonishment  at 
the  three  battered  mince  pies  at  their  feet. 


JEREMIAH  COXE  ON  THE  RAMPAGE.  145 


CHAPTER  XII. 

JEREMIAH  COXE  ON  THE  RAMPAGE. 

JEREMIAH  STONE  COXE  went  within  the  car  and 
huddled  himself  up  in  a  seat.  He  shrunk  within  him- 
self, so  that  his  frock-coat  seemed  at  least  two  sizes  too 
large  for  him.  Mechanically,  as  in  an  unhappy  dream, 
he  paid  his  fare  with  the  seventy  cents  change  he  had 
received  from  Mr.  Gibbs,  the  grocer,  after  he  had  paid 
for  his  pies. 

Station  after  station  whirled  by;  still  the  unfortunate 
runaway  sat  there,  too  dazed  to  think.  Not  until  the 
voice  of  the  brakeman  called  "Van  Cortland  Junc- 
tion!" did  he  bestir  himself,  and  remember  that  there 
were  other  pies  to  be  purchased,  as  well  as  the  three 
he  had  lost. 

When  Mr.  Co~xe  alighted  from  that  train  at  Van 
Cortland  Junction,  he  was  possessed  with  a  spirit  of 
perfect  devilishness.  From  the  depths  of  absolute  de- 
spair he  suddenly  soared  to  the  heights  of  delirious 


146  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

happiness.  The  loss  of  the  pies  had  only  whetted  his 
appetite  to  perform  startling  gormandizing  feats. 

He  determined  to  stop  at  no  half-way  measures.  In 
for  a  shilling,  he  might  as  well  be  in  for  a  pound.  He 
would  stop  at  no  three  pies.  He  was  going  to  simply 
raise  "Cain"  with  his  stomach.  The  orgy  he  was 
about  to  indulge  in  would  put  a  Roman  feast  to  shame. 
In  fact,  a  Roman  feast  would  be  total  abstinence  com- 
pared with  it.  For  one  blissful  hour  he  would  be  a 
pig,  and  wallow  in  hard-boiled  eggs,  cold  pork  and 
beans,  doughnuts,  bologna  sausage  and  pie — all  the 
glorious  array  of  indigestibles  that  a  country  restau- 
rant affords.  That  restaurant  was  to  be  cleared  of  all 
eatables.  Perhaps  he  would  not  be  able  to  do  it  him- 
self; but  when  he  had  gorged  himself  up  to  his  fifth 
rib,  he  would  hire  others  to  help  him.  Not  a  hard- 
boiled  egg  should  be  left  in  its  saucer;  not  a  sandwich 
should  be  left  to  repose  under  its  glass  case.  Yes;  the 
restaurant  was  to  be  cleared  out  if  it  cost 

The  rosy  vision  was  clouded  over  by  thick  dark- 
ness. The  hands  of  the  dyspeptic  darted  suddenly 
into  his  pockets.  An  anxious  expression  flitted  across 
his  haggard  countenance.  From  pocket  to  pocket  his 


JEREMIAH   COXE  ON  THE  RAMPAGE.  147 

hands  darted  wildly.  Then  in  abject  helplessness  he 
sank  faint  and  despairing  on  the  station  bench.  He 
was  a  victim  of  a  brutal,  cruel  joke  of  Fate. 

Jeremiah  Stone  Coxe  had  left  his  pocketbook  at  the 
grocery  store. 

The  train  departed;  but  he  took  no  heed.  He  did 
not  care  what  became  of  him  now.  He  sat  there  on 
the  bench,  his  hungry  eyes  gazing  fixedly  before  him, 
his  bony  hands  clutching  either  kneecap,  his  dry  lips 
moistened  by  his  thin  tongue. 

Then,  out  of  the  darkness  of  despair,  so  it  seemed 
to  him,  there  came  a  voice — the  voice  of  conscience, 
personified  in  the  familiar  accents  of  Jane  Bennet 
Coxe.  There  were  precisely  four  syllables  of  deep, 
stern  reproach: 

"Jeremiah!" 

He  smiled  bitterly.  It  was  fitting  that  this  presag- 
ing of  the  inevitable  interview  that  must  await  him 
with  Mrs.  Coxe  should  be  added  to  his  cup  of  woe. 

"Jeremiah!" 

The  voice  sounded  uncannily  distinct — more  vibrant, 
more  stern,  more  deep. 

"JEREMIAH!" 


148  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

The  startled  dyspeptic  leaped  to  his  feet.  It  was  no 
spiritual  voice  that  had  called  him.  It  was  Mrs.  Coxe 
in  the  flesh. 

"Jeremiah  Coxe,  you  scourge,  what  you  doing  here? 
You've  run  away." 

Mr.  Coxe  swallowed  an  imaginary  something  and 
gazed  at  his  wife  much  as  a  terrified  rabbit  gazes  at  a 
big  boa,  into  whose  capacious  mouth  it  is  presently  to 
disappear. 

"You  ungrateful,  greedy  creature.  You've  run 
away.  Don't  tell  me.  You've  been  gorgin'  yourself 
again." 

The  dyspeptic  shook  his  head  unhappily. 

"Well,  we'll  see  about  that.  Open  your  mouth. 
Open  it.  Hurry  up." 

Mrs.  Coxe  stamped  her  foot  impatiently.  Her  hus- 
band opened  his  mouth. 

"Take  your  tongue  away  from  your  teeth.  Open  it 
wider — wider,  I  say.  Is  that  cracker  crumbs  or  is  it 
pie  crumb?  It's  pie  crumb." 

Again  the  dyspeptic  shook  his  head  vehemently, 
tears  in  his  haggard  eyes.  It  is  hard  to  lose  three  pies. 
But  it  is  harder  to  be  accused  of  eating  them  when 
they  are  lost  through  your  own  stupidity, 


JEREMIAH  COXE  ON  THE  RAMPAGE  149 

"Well,  Jeremiah  Coxe,  it's  no  use  my  coddlin'  you 
any  longer.  I've  coddled  you,  and  coddled  you,  and 
coddled  you.  This  time,  Jeremiah  Coxe,  it's  divorce." 

The  dyspeptic  stared  at  his  wife  in  tearful  misery. 
But  he  uttered  no  word  of  protest. 

"Divorce  has  got  to  come.  Here  I've  been  workin' 
myself  to  the  bone  to  keep  you  in  food  and  clothin', 
and  no  sooner  do  I  turn  my  back  than  you  run  away. 
Only  this  mornin'  at  six  did  I  set  foot  on  America, 
from  the  Bermudy's,  and  come  home  to  my  Coxey, 
and  already  I  find  you  in  mischief.  I  tell  you,  it  took 
me  back  to  see  you  settin'  on  that  bench  there.  It 
didn't  take  me  long  to  get  out  of  that  car.  Oh,  Jerry, 
Jerry,  what  makes  you  so  mean?" 

Mr.  Coxe  did  not  disclose  the  reason  of  his  moral 
depravity. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  so  great  harm's  done  after 
all.  Now  you've  come  half  way,  I  suppose  there's  no  use 
goin'  back  again.  Now,  Coxe,  I  want  you  to  set  right 
down  on  that  bench  and  not  budge  an  inch.  Do  you 
hear?  I'll  go  and  send  a  telegram  to  those  old  ladies 
up  at  the  Shrewsbury  Inn  and  tell  'em  what  I  think  of 
'em.  And  they'll  pay  the  charges,  too." 


150  THE   TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

While  Mrs.  Coxe  was  speaking,  she  was  investigat- 
ing the  contents  of  a  large  valise.  She  shut  it  up  with 
a  click,  taking  from  it  two  packages.  She  looked  at 
one  of  them  in  consternation. 

"Well,  if  I  hadn't  forgot  all  about  that  package,  my 
name  ain't  Jane  Coxe.  It's  a  sample  box  of  Bermudy 
onions,  Jerry.  I've  gone  in  the  onion  business  just  a 
little,  Jerry,  and  I've  got  to  send  these  samples  to  the 
commission  agent  at  Charleston.  I  wonder  if  I  could 
trust  you  to  express  'em  for  me,  Coxe?  There's 
nothin'  to  pay.  I  want  to  send  this  telegram  to  those 
folks  up  at  the  Shrewsbury,  and  the  train'll  be  goin' 
before  I  can  do  both.  And  here" — Mrs.  Coxe  tapped 
the  other  box  she  had  extracted  from  the  valise — "is 
a  nice  little  lunch,  Jerry,  and  if  you  send  those  onions 
off  all  right,  you  shall  have  a  nice  bunch  of  grapes. 
Here's  the  package,  Jerry.  Send  it  C.  O.  D." 

While  Mrs.  Coxe  had  been  talking,  she  had  been 
writing  out  a  telegram  to  send  to  the  maiden  aunts  at 
Philanthropist  Hall.  Observe,  now,  the  folly  of 
attempting  to  do  two  things  at  once.  Caesar  is  said  to 
have  done  two  things  at  once  successfully,  but  Mrs. 
Coxe,  while  an  excellent  woman  of  business,  was  not 


JEREMIAH  COXE  ON  THE   RAMPAGE.  151 

Julius  Caesar.  The  two  boxes  were  wrapped  in  tissue 
and  brown  wrappers  respectively.  Mrs.  Coxe  should 
have  given  her  husband  the  box  wrapped  in  the  brown 
wrapper.  She  gave  him  the  box  wrapped  in  the  tissue 
paper. 

Manifestly  it  was  Mr.  Coxe's  duty  to  tell  his  wife  of 
the  mistake.  But  like  drunkards  and  opium  eaters, 
dyspeptics  cannot  be  held  morally  responsible. 

Mr.  Coxe  held  the  tissue  paper  parcel  in  both  his 
hands  and  marched  around  the  corner  of  the  station 
to  the  express  office.  But  he  did  not  enter.  He  sought 
out  a  solitary  spot  at  the  far  end  of  the  station,  where, 
without  molestation,  he  eould  pursue  any  guilty  in- 
vestigation that  appealed  to  him. 

His  hollow  eyes  glittered  as  he  tore  a  hole  in  the 
paper  and  placed  his  organ  of  smell  in  close  proximity 
to  the  hole.  He  drew  in  a  long,  lustful,  drawn-out 
sniff.  He  glanced  stealthily  about  him.  No  one  was 
in  sight.  He  snapped  the  string.  With  the  ferocity 
of  a  tiger  he  tore  off  the  paper. 

Then  he  detached  a  grape  and  ate  the  seeds.  Then 
he  nibbled  at  the  corner  of  a  chicken  sandwich.  Hav- 
ing thus  artistically  dallied  with  his  appetite,  he 


152  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

pounced  on  the  lunch  like  a  ravening  wolf.  Nibble 
and  bite  ended  in  a  savage,  murderous  onslaught. 

It  was  all  over  very  soon.  There  was  no  retreat 
now.  Let  Mrs.  Coxe  storm.  Let  her  shake  him  by 
the  collar.  Let  her  secure  a  divorce.  Not  even  Mrs. 
Coxe  could  take  from  him  the  delirious  joy  of  that  two 
minutes. 

There  was  no  time  to  concoct  elaborate  excuses. 
He  returned  to  Mrs.  Coxe.  The  murder  would  out 
by-and-bye,  perhaps.  But  sufficient  for  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof. 

Mrs.  Coxe  met  him  in  evident  dismay. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  some  thief  has  gone  and  stole  our  lunch. 
I  left  it  on  the  station  bench  just  while  I  went  to  send 
off  that  telegram,  and  when  I  came  out  'twas  gone. 
So  I  can't  give  you  your  grapes  after  all.  Well,  it's 
lucky  'twasn't  the  Bermudy  onions.  Did  my  Jerry 
send  the  onions  O.  K.?" 

Mr.  Coxe,  the  dyspeptic's,  eyes  glittered  and  glit- 
tered. He  placed  his  hands  gently  across  his  abdomi- 
nal regions.  For  the  first  time  he  spoke  a  complete 
,  sentence — subject,  predicate  and  object: 

"Yes,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "I — ugh — have  de- 
spatched it." 


THE  ELEPHANT   IS   OFF  THEIR   HANDS.        153 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  ELEPHANT  IS   OFF  THEIR  HANDS. 

TEXTOR  had  gone  to  the  city  ostensibly  to  see 
that  Hattie  Car  was  safely  consigned  to  Uncle  Jack. 
His  real  purpose,  however,  was  to  call  upon  Mr. 
Van  Taft  and  to  formally  declare  his  love  for  Frances. 
Textor  would  infinitely  have  preferred  to  wait  until 
his  prospects  were  brighter  before  doing  this,  but 
Hattie  Car's  startling  and  public  revelation  to  the 
world  had  made  it  absolutely  necessary.  And  Fran- 
ces, incensed  against  the  novelist  as  she  was,  could  not 
deny  to  her  aunts  that  there  had  been  a  secret  under- 
standing. Very  fortunately,  indeed,  the  maiden  aunts 
had  watched  with  interest  and  tacitly  fostered  the  nov- 
elist's love  for  their  niece.  When,  therefore,  Textor 
made  apologies  for  Hattie  Car's  premature  announce- 
ment of  the  state  of  affairs,  to  his  extreme  surprise 
they  received  the  tidings  with  a  very  feeble  show  of 
indignation, 


154  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

When  Textor  returned  from  the  city,  Frances  was 
at  the  station  with  the  dog-cart  to  meet  him. 

"So  there  was  an  Uncle  Jack  after  all,"  she  cried,  as 
soon  as  she  perceived  that  Hattie  was  not  in  his  com- 
pany. 

"No,"  replied  the  novelist,  "there  was  no  Uncle 
Jack.  I  will  tell  yotf  all  about  that  presently." 

He  put  a  foot  on  the  carriage  step,  prepared  to 
swing  himself  beside  her. 

"But,"  said  Frances,  decisively,  "you  are  not  to 
come  with  me,  you  know.  You  are  to  go  back  to 
the  city  on  the  next  train.  It  starts  in  ten  minutes." 

"To  go  back  on  the  next  train!"  repeated  Textor, 
greatly  surprised,  one  foot  still  on  the  step. 

"To  find  Mr.  Coxe.  He  has  gone  on  the  rampage. 
He  has  run  away." 

"Well,"  said  Textor,  crossly,  "good  riddance  to  bad 
rubbish." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  find  him,  you  know.  Aunt 
Ruth  and  Aunt  Elsie  made  me  meet  you  precisely  to 
tell  you,  and  to  ask  your  advice." 

"But  where  has  he  gone  to — New  York?" 

"That  we  do  not  know.     But  apparently  not  to  New 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   OFF  THEIR   HANDS.        155 

York.  Mr.  Beedy,  the  telegraph  operator,  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  the  detectives  at  the  New  York  station  de- 
scribing Mr.  Coxe's  appearance.  He  says  that  so  far 
no  one  of  that  description  has  been  seen.  It  is  seven 
hours  since  he  disappeared." 

"He  must  have  stopped  off  at  one  of  the  way  stations, 
sir,"  volunteered  the  operator,  who  had  been  an  in- 
terested listener.  "I've  wired  to  'em  all.  We  shall 
hear  in  a  short  while,  I'm  thinking." 

When  Frances  had  told  Textor  all  the  facts  con- 
nected with  the  dyspeptic's  escape,  he  seated  himself 
in  the  cart,  despite  Frances'  expostulations. 

"It  would  be  quite  useless  for  me  to  start  on  such  a 
wild  goose  chase,"  he  said,  settling  himself  comfort- 
ably in  the  carriage  and  taking  the  reins  from  Frances. 
"I  would  do  much  for  Miss  Ruth,  and  even  more  to 
ease  Miss  Elsie's  conscience,  especially  after  that  kiss 
she  gave  me,  but  I  cannot  see  my  way  to  stopping  off 
at  twenty  stations  inquiring  for  the  dyspeptic.  It 
would  take  me  three  or  four  days." 

Frances  looked  at  him  doubtfully  from  under  her 
parasol,  and  reluctantly  gathered  up  her  skirts  to 


156  THE  TWO   WHITE    ELEPHANTS. 

make  room  for  him.  "I  don't  know  what  Aunt  Ruth 
will  say." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  the  scapegoat.  Let  the  dyspeptic's 
death  be  laid  at  my  door.  I  can  bear  it." 

"But  it  needn't  be  laid  at  your  door,  sir,"  called  out 
the  operator  from  his  little  window.  "There's  a  mes- 
sage coming  now,  sir,  hot  over  the  wire,  to  the  ladies 
up  at  the  Hall,  from  Van  Cortland  Junction.  Why, 
it's  from  the  old  gent's  wife  herself,  sir." 

It  appeared  to  be  a  very  long  message. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  corker,"  cried  the  operator,  ex- 
citedly. "Two  cents  every  extra  word,  too.  It  takes 
the  women  folks  to  say  fool  things,  I  must  say." 

"It  is  not  because  she  is  a  woman  that  she  is  send- 
ing so  long  a  telegram,  Mr.  Beedy,"  cried  Frances, 
indignantly,  "and  it  is  very  ungallant  of  you  to  say  so. 
It  is  because  she  has  a  grudge  against  us  and  she  will 
make  us  pay  the  charges.  Is  not  the  message  sent 
'Collect  on  Delivery?' " 

"That's  just  what  it  is,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Beedy,  smil- 
ing broadly.  "Seventy-seven  extra  words  at  two 
cents  a  word,  and  ten  regulars  at  twenty-five,  with 
fifteen  cents  for  delivery " 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   OFF  THEIR   HANDS.        157 

"But  you  don't  deliver  it,  Mr  Beedy.  We  take  it 
now." 

" Is  one  dollar  and  ninety-four  cents,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Beedy,  disregarding  the  expostulation  of 
Frances.  He  handed  the  telegram  to  her. 

"Although  it  is  addressed  to  my  aunts,  I  feel  justi- 
fied in  reading  it,  since  it  may  be  necessary  for  you  to 
go  to  Van  Cortland  Junction,"  said  Frances  to  Tex- 
tor. 

"Got  back  from  Bermuda  this  morning.  Seen  Coxe 
setting  on  depot  bench.  Got  out  of  train.  Enough 
to  try  Job's  patience.  This  Van  Cortland  Junction 
wiring  from.  But  it's  on  the  heading.  Well,  let  it 
go  at  that.  Coxe  had  run  away.  Providential  was 
caught  by  me.  Has  he  gorged  hisself  since  I  left? 
Must  have  treated  him  bad  or  he  wouldn't  have  run 
away.  What  done  to  silk  hat?  Send  back  money 
I  paid  to  you  less  board — milk  and  crackers,  mind,  for 
three  days.  You'll  pay  for  new  silk  hat  for  Coxe. 
If  you  don't,  I'll  have  law  on  you.  So  look  out.  Send 
that  money  for  rebate  on  board  and  price  of  new  silk 
hat.  JANE  B.  COXE." 

"It  is  a  most  insolent  message,  and  the  bill  is  per> 


158  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

fectly  exorbitant.  But  I  am  sure  Aunt  Ruth  would 
pay  twenty  dollars  for  messages,  to  get  rid  of  that  man 
and  his  wife.  And  now  please  tell  me  about  Hattie." 

Textor  flicked  the  horse  with  the  whip.  "You  can't 
care  very  much  for  me,"  he  said,  looking  sulkily 
ahead,  "if  you  put  me  after  the  dyspeptic  and  Hattie. 
Don't  you  want  to  hear  what  your  father  said  to  me?" 

"Not  until  I  have  heard  about  Hattie." 

"You  mustn't  blame  me,  then,  if  I  am  in  a  bad  tem- 
per when  I  have  finished.  That  little  fibber  would  try 
Job's  patience  quite  as  much  as  would  Mr.  Coxe.  As 
we  journeyed  nearer  and  nearer  to  New  York,  Hattie's 
spirits  drooped  perceptibly.  She  was  less  and  less  cer- 
tain precisely  where  her  precious  Uncle  Jack  lived. 
When  we  came  down  from  the  Elevated  at  the  Twenty- 
third  street  station,  Sixth  avenue,  and  walked  towards 
Madison  Square,  we  had,  of  course,  to  pass  the  Eden 
Musee.  Oh,  could  she  go  in  and  see  the  wax  figures. 
She  had  always  been  dying  to.  Uncle  Jack  had  al- 
ways promised  to  take  her,  but  he  was  so  busy.  She 
would  take  me  to  Uncle  Jack's  house  immediately 
after." 

"So  she  pretended  she  did  know  where  her  Uncle 
Jack  lived  even  then?."  asked  Frances,  smiling-, 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   OFF  THEIR   HANDS.        159 

"Yes,"  replied  Textor,  crossly.  "Of  course,  the  lit- 
tle fibber  was  cajoling  me.  We  went  to  the  Eden 
Musee." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  take  her  to  the  chamber  of  hor- 
rors. It  is  not  a  good  thing  for  little  girls  to  see,  I 
think." 

"Yes,  we  saw  the  whole  show.  In  fact,  Hattie  could 
give  a  good  many  people  interesting  details  concern- 
ing those  murderers.  Why,  the  child  knew  the  place 
by  heart." 

"And  then  you  went  after  Uncle  Jack?" 

"No,  we  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  Hattie  waited  un- 
til we  were  outside,  and  I  was  talking  to  some  people 
I  know,  when  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears  before 
those  people  and  confessed  that  there  really  was  no 
Uncle  Jack." 

"Poor  Dick!  The  little  wretch!" 

"I  never  was  so  angry.  Not  so  much  at  her  confes- 
sion as  at  her  crying  at  such  a  time.  However,  I  be- 
gan to  see  the  humorous  side  of  things  presently — 
she  certainly  is  an  original  little  wretch — and  I  took 
her  to  the  matinee.  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do  with 
her," 


l6o  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"That  was  a  very  bad  thing  to  do  from  a  pedagogical 
principle,  after  she  had  been  so  snappy,"  remarked 
Frances  gravely. 

"I  shall  remember  that  matinee  as  long  as  I  live 
with  profound  gratitude.  Between  the  second  and 
third  acts,  while  Hattie  was  complacently  eating  some 
caramels,  I  noticed  a  peculiar  expression  of  horror  and 
dismay  on  her  face.  She  didn't  feel  well.  Could  she 
go  out?  She  thought  the  play  was  stupid.  Oh,  please 
could  she  go  away  at  once?  My  suspicions  were 
aroused.  I  looked  in  the  same  direction  that  the  child 
had  been  staring  a  minute  or  "wo  before;  and  I  was 
confronted  by  two  fiery  orbs  glaring  at  mine  indig- 
nantly." 

"Yes,  two  fiery  orbs?"  echoed  Frances  expectantly. 

"They  belonged  to  Miss  Adele  Philips,  the  principal 
of  Philips  Hall,  a  select  boarding  school  for  girls. 
Three  stations  below  Clifton  Hills,  on  the  New  York 
Central  Railroad." 

"The  idea!  Why  didn't  we  think  of  that  place  be- 
fore?" 

Miss  Car  was  returning  to  -school  after  her  usual 
weekly  holiday  at  home,  when  she  came  to  Philanthro- 


THE  ELEPHANT  IS  OFF  THEIR   HANDS.        l6l 

pist  Hall  by  mistake.  It  was  not  easy  to  explain  things 
to  Miss  Philips.  It  appears,  however,  that  this  is  not 
the  first  time  that  Miss  Car  has  lost  herself.  It  is  a 
favorite  pastime  of  hers.  However,  I  handed  Miss 
Car  over  to  the  care  of  Miss  Philips,  and  escaped. 
Miss  Philips  will  send  for  Miss  Car's  belongings  to- 
morrow. Miss  Hattie  Car  is  probably  in  an  unfur- 
nished room  now,  thinking  matters  over,  feasting  on 
bread  and  water.  I  imagine  she  will  not  be  inclined 
to  run  away  again  for  some  time,  judging  from  the 
fiery  orbs  of  the  principal." 

"Poor  little  dear.  I  shall  ask  her  to  spend  her 
Christmas  holidays  with  me.  And  now  please  tell  me 
about  father." 

"There  is  really  very  little  to  say,"  replied  Textor 
perversely,  to  pay  her  back  for  her  apparent  lack  of 
interest.  "He  was  going  to  the  Country  Club  when  I 
called  at  his  office,  and  he  was  in  a  hurry.  I  told  him 
everything." 

"Not  why  you  were  compelled  to  speak  prema- 
turely?" asked  Frances,  flushing  scarlet. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Fan.  It  wasn't  any  more  pleas- 
ant for  me  than  for  you.  I  took  all  the  blame." 


162  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"I  should  hope  you  did.  I  was  entirely  at  your 
mercy." 

"I  must  say  I  was  awfully  relieved  when  I  found 
your  father  did  not  kick  me  out  of  his  office,  but 
roared  with  laughter  and  he  called  you — " 

"What  did  he  call  me?"  asked  Frances  curiously. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  dare  tell  you.  It  would  make  you 
angry." 

"Was  it  something  very  bad?"  she  said  uneasily. 

"It  is  scandalously  bad.  It  absolves  me  from  all  the 
blame.  No  jury  could  convict  me  after  what  he  said." 

"Tell  me,"  entreated  Frances,  her  curiosity  getting 
the  better  of  her  discretion. 

"He  said  you  were  an  artful  little  minx." 

"Is  that  all?"  exclaimed  Frances,  coolly,  a  little  dis- 
appointed that  it  was  nothing  more  terrible.  "And 
what  did  he  say  then?" 

"He  asked  me  to  go  to  the  Country  Club  and  play 
golf  with  him.  I  am  not  a  bad  hand  at  the  game,  and  I 
was  afraid  to  beat  him.  So  I  played  carelessly,  until  he 
found  it  out.  Then  he  was  in  a  tearing  passion." 

"Did  he  swear?" 


THE   ELEPHANT  IS   OFF  THEIR   HANDS.        163 

"Vigorously,  but  in  only  gentlemanly  ejaculations. 
But  he  badgered  and  bullied  me  so  that  I  forgot  all 
about  being  diplomatic,  and  I  played  the  game  of  my 
life." 

"You  foolish  old  boy.  You  beat  him  and  he  swore 
in  not  so  gentlemanly  a  fashion?" 

"Just  the  reverse.  He  gave  me  a  severe  drubbing, 
and  we  both  were  in  an  excellent  humor.  So  I  had 
dinner  with  him,  and  when  we  had  spent  two  hours 
going  over  the  game,  and  he  had  demonstrated  to  his 
own  satisfaction  why  he  had  played  badly  at  first,  we 
talked  about  you." 

"You  see,  if  you  come  after  Mr.  Coxe  and  Hattie,  I 
come  after  a  stupid  game,"  pouted  Frances. 

"Not  with  me,  dear  girl.  Only  with  your  father. 
He  asked  me  what  was  my  profession,  and  for  the 
want  of  anything  better  to  say,  I  told  him  I  was  a 
novelist." 

"So  you  are.    But  I  can  imagine  daddy's  dismay." 

"Yes,  he  was  horribly  business-like.  He  asked  me 
what  was  my  income.  I  told  him  it  was  less  than 
nothing.  I  think  he  would  have  been  angry  then.  But 
he  remembered  that  I  had  played  a  good  game  and 


164  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

that  he  had  beaten  me,  and  he  remembered  what  Hat- 
tie  had  written  on  the  shutters.  So  he  merely  said  I 
was  an  impudent  young  beggar." 

"I  certainly  shall  ask  Hattie  to  spend  Christmas 
with  me,"  cried  Frances. 

"Yes,  I  believe  she  saved  the  day.  Because  he 
would  get  so  frightfully  prosaic,  and  point  out  in  such 
a  terribly  logical  and  clear  way  how  absurd  it  was  for 
me  to  ask  him  to  entrust  your  happiness  to  me  under 
these  circumstances,  that  I  felt  like  crawling  under  the 
table  several  times,  and  asking  him  with  tears  in  my 
eyes  to  please  trample  on  me.  But  every  now  and 
again,  when  he  was  clinching  an  argument  to  prove 
that  I  was  a  worthless  sort  of  fellow  for  a  son-in-law,  he 
would  remember  what  Hattie  wrote,  and  burst  into 
laughter." 

"Dear  old  daddy.  He  couldn't  understand  how  an 
income  could  come  from  a  book." 

"At  last  he  decided  the  matter  in  this  way.  He 
liked  me  personally.  His  sisters  had  spoken  of  me 
well.  He  was  willing  for  me  to  see  you.  But  we  were 
both  young  and  could  wait.  If  I  succeed  before  a  year 
with  writing,  he  will  sanction  a  formal  engagement. 


THE  ELEPHANT  IS  OFF  THEIR  HANDS.        165 

But  he  hoped  I  would  not.  Because  I  have  promised 
that  if  I  do  not  succeed,  I  will  take  up  the  law.  Then 
he  will  have  no  objection  to  me  whatever.  Because 
my  father  will  in  that  case  settle  a  good  income  on  me 
at  once." 

"But  7  shall  have  an  objection,"  said  Frances  obstin- 
ately. "I  am  determined  I  will  not  marry  a  prosy 
lawyer.  I  am  going  to  marry  a  novelist.  If  you  do  not 
persevere  in  writing,  I  shall  jilt  you." 

Textor  recognized  the  jest  beneath  the  words.  But 
he  savv  how  much  she  had  set  her  heart  on  his  suc- 
cess, and  he  became  very  despondent. 

"I  will  try  hard  to  succeed,  Fan;  but  I'm  afraid  I 
shall  have  to  go  back  to  the  law." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  be  impatient,  Dick.  I  will  wait 
a  very,  very  long  time.  But  please  try  hard  not  to 
give  in.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  your  success.  Only 
hope.  Something  may  happen  to  give  things  a  better 
turn." 

Textor  shook  his  head.  But  Frances  looked  so 
hopeful  that  he  wondered. 

Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  heard  of  Mr.  Coxe's  cap- 
ture by  Mrs.  Coxe,  and  of  Hattie's  capture  by  the 


166  THE  two  WHITE  ELEPHANTS 

principal  of  Philips  Hall,  with  devout  thankfulness  and 
joy. 

"Oh,  it  certainly  is  a  relief  to  have  these  people 
gone,"  sighed  Frances.  "And  now  we  are  ready  for 
real  philanthropists,  aren't  we?" 

Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  shook  their  heads  in  em- 
phatic denial. 

"We  are  not,"  said  Miss  Ruth. 

She  summoned  a  maid  to  call  James. 

When  that  respectable  servant  appeared,  Miss  Ruth 
commanded  him  to  provide  himself  with  a  sharp  axe. 

"Your  Aunt  Elsie  and  I  have  discussed  the  matter 
thoroughly  since  you  have  been  to  the  station,  Frances. 
We  have  decided  that  there  shall  be  no  more  Philan- 
thropist Hall." 

Textor  and  Frances  stared.  But  Miss  Elsie  seemed 
to  share  her  sister's  satisfaction. 

Miss  Ruth  turned  to  James:  "I  wish  you  to  go  to 
the  entrance  gate,  James,  provided  with  a  sharp  axe. 
You  will  demolish  the  sign,  'Philanthropist  Hall.' 
You  will  go  to  the  carpenter's  and  have  him  make  an- 
other. You  will  then  go  to  the  painter's;  you  will  in- 
struct him  to  paint  on  the  new  sign  the  words:  'Private 
Grounds.  No  Admittance.'  Do  you  understand?" 


THE   ELEPHANT  IS  OFF  THEIR   HANDS.       l6/ 

James  inclined  his  respectful  head,  as  if  it  were 
quite  a  matter  of  course  to  open  schools  one  week  and 
to  close  them  the  next. 

"Very  well,  James.  Be  sure  that  the  painter  puts 
two  t's  in  'admittance.'  And  do  not  forget  that  this  is 
a  private  residence;  and  if  any  so-called  philanthropists 
dare  to  intrude,  you  will  warn  them  that  they  are  tres- 
passing." 

Textor  gazed  at  Frances  somewhat  crestfallen. 
Philanthropist  Hall,  as  Frances  had  said,  was  such  a 
capital  place  for  people  to  live  who  were  in  love.  He 
cleared  his  throat. 

"Then  I  suppose  that  you  no  longer  need  my  ser- 
vices— I  mean  that  I  trust  you  can  now  spare  me,  Miss 
Ruth,  since  there  will  be  no  philanthropists  to  lecture 
to.  I  can  be  working  at  my  new  book." 

He  spoke  with  a  cheerfulness  that  he  did  not  at  all 
feel.  He  was  wondering  how  he  was  going  to  live. 
Perhaps  he  would  have  to  eat  bad  food  now  because 
he  could  not  afford  any  better. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Ruth.  "I  am  thankful  that,  how- 
ever disastrously  we  may  have  failed,  you  will  con- 
tinue to  impress  on  the  world  the  mistakes  of  philan- 
thropists by  your  novels." 


168  THE  TWO  WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"I  am  afraid,  Miss  Ruth,  that  I  may  possibly  have 
to  give  up  writing  as  a  profession." 

"Give  up  writing  as  a  profession!"  chorused  the 
maiden  aunts,  aghast. 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  have  to  practise  the  law. 
You  see,  I  have  an  elephant  on  my  hands,  as  well  as 
yourself.  If  philanthropists  will  not  patronize  your 
school,  neither  will  novel  readers  patronize  my  books. 
There  is  almost  an  edition  to  dispose  of.  That  is  a 
very  big  elephant,  indeed." 

"My  dear  Richard"  (it  was  the  first  time  Miss  Ruth 
had  called  him  by  his  first  name,  and  he  smiled  grate- 
fully), "I  am  deeply  grieved  to  hear  that.  You  are, 
then,  to  an  extent,  dependent  upon  the  financial  suc- 
cess of  your  novels?" 

"Absolutely  so,  if  I  persist  in  writing  novels,  I  am 
afraid.  Neither  Frances'  father  nor  mine  recognizes  it 
as  a  profession.  My  father  will  not  settle  an  income 
on  me  so  long  as  I  write,  I  imagine;  unless,  of  course, 
I  succeed  to  a  degree.  Success  reconciles  one  to 
many  things.  Will  you  be  at  this  house  much  during 
the  summer?" 

"Yes,  a  very  great  share  of  the  time.     It  is  too  big 


THE   ELEPHANT   IS   OFF  THEIR   HANDS.       169 

an  elephant  on  our  hands  for  a  residence.  We  shall 
decide  in  a  few  weeks,  perhaps,  what  to  do  with  it,  but 
at  present  we  shall  be  here.  Frances  will  be  here,  too. 
We  shall  see  you  often,  of  course." 

"Thank  you." 

"Please  do  not  be  discouraged  about  your  book. 
Let  us  hope  that  something  will  turn  up." 

"And  I  feel  almost  confident  something  will,"  said 
Frances. 

Again  Textor  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  She 
seemed  so  very  hopeful — so  radiantly  hopeful. 


I/O  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
"THE  LITTLE  BOOMING  SQUAD." 

IT  was  after  tea.  The  maiden  aunts  and  Frances 
were  gazing  across  the  lawns  from  the  piazza.  They 
were  all  very  much  bored  and  unhappy.  But  they 
pretended  to  be  very  happy. 

"We  have  had  now  a  week  of  perfect  rest  since  those 
people  have  gone,"  sighed  Miss  Ruth. 

"A  blessed  relief,  indeed,"  murmured  Miss  Elsie. 
"But  a  little  monotonous,  sister?" 

"Not  at  all,  Elsie." 

Miss  Ruth  spoke  sharply;  but  she  sighed  again. 
And  James,  watching  them  from  the  stables,  remarked 
to  the  gardener  that  the  old  ladies  seemed  a  trifle  down 
in  the  mouth.  And  the  gardener  replied  that  things 
were  dead  slow  since  the  freaks  and  the  kid  were  gone. 

"It  is  true,"  conceded  Miss  Ruth,  "that  it  would 
have  been  much  more  enjoyable  if  the  Hall  were  full 
pf  philanthropists  imbibing  knowledge," 


"THE    LITTLE   BOOMING   SQUAD."  I/I 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  child?"  asked  Miss  Ruth 
presently  of  Frances. 

"I  was  thinking  that  poor  Dick  is  a  failure,  too, 
Aunt  Ruth,"  answered  Frances,  soberly. 

"Oh,"  cried  Miss  Ruth,  "it  is  horrible  to  think  how 
obstinately  ignorant  people  insist  on  being.  If  people 
would  only  read  that  book,  for  instance,  how  much 
good  it  might  do  them.  It  might  revolutionize  their 
lives.  But  they  will  neither  read  good  books  nor 
learn  wisdom.  Really,  I  blush  for  mankind." 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  suggested  Miss  Elsie,  "that 
it  might  be  productive  of  good  if  we  were  to  buy  sev- 
eral of  those  books,  and  to  distribute  them  among  the 
various  libraries  of  the  institutions  we  are  interested 
in,  sister." 

"That  is  an  admirable  idea,  Elsie." 

"I  do  not  imagine  that  the  ordering  of  a  hundred 
copies  or  so  would  be  of  much  assistance  to  Richard. 
One  hundred  copies  at  ten  per  cent,  is  only  fifteen 
dollars.  But  it  would  be  something." 

"I  suppose  that  we  should  have  to  place  so  large  an 
order  as  that  with  the  publishers,"  said  Miss  Ruth, 
thoughtfully, 


1/2  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

Frances  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  with 
breathless  interest.  She  sprang  from  the  rocking- 
chair  in  which  she  was  seated,  and  faced  her  aunts  ex- 
citedly. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Ruth!  Oh,  Aunt  Elsie!  What  you  have 
been  speaking  of  has  been  my  idea  for  several  days, 
though  I  have  not  dared  to  suggest  it." 

"What  are  you  talking  of?"  asked  Miss  Ruth  view- 
ing her  niece's  excitement  with  disapproval. 

Frances  recognized  the  note  of  disapproval.  "Oh, 
it  wouldn't  be  proper,"  she  murmured,  diplomatically. 

"What  would  not  be  proper?  Really,  Frances,  I 
wish  you  would  learn  to  be  more  clear." 

"Why,  I  was  thinking,  Aunt  Ruth,  how  we  might 
possibly  create  a  demand  for  Dick's  books,  if  we  were 
only  willing  to  buy  a  few." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Frances." 

"Please,  Aunt  Ruth,  do  not  insist.  I  am  quite  cer- 
tain you  would  not  think  my  plan  either  ladylike  or 
practical." 

"Nevertheless,  you  may  tell  me,  Frances.  There 
can  be  nothing  improper  in  that." 

f'Qf  course,  I  will  tell  you  if  you  really  insist,"  said 


"THE   LITTLE   BOOMING   SQUAD."  173 

the  very  artful  Frances,  with  apparent  reluctance.  "But 
it  is  an  absurd  scheme,  very  likely.  Even  if  it  is  prac- 
tical, you  will  think  it  too  vulgarly  commercial.  Or, 
at  least,  Aunt  Elsie  will." 

"Frances,"  cried  Miss  Ruth,  exasperated,  "you  are 
enough  to  drive  Job  off  his  monument." 

"It  was  a  being  of  the  feminine  gender,  Aunt  Ruth, 
who  is  so  patiently  standing  on  the  proverbial  monu- 
ment," corrected  Frances,  calmly.  "But  this  is  my  idea: 
Aunt  Elsie  and  yourself  were  saying  a  few  moments 
ago  that  it  would  be  an  admirable  plan  to  buy  up  a 
hundred  copies  of  Dick's  book.  You  suggested  plac- 
ing the  order  with  the  publisher." 

"Well?" 

"Now,  might  we  not  create  a  real  demand  by  placing 
the  hundred  orders  among  ten  booksellers,  instead? 
We  might  create  a  demand  for  a  second  edition." 

"A  second  edition!"  exclaimed  Miss  Ruth,  skepti- 
cally. 

"A  second  edition,"  repeated  Frances. 

"But  how,  child?" 

"By  organizing  ourseives  into  a  little  booming 
squad," 


1/4  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"A  little  booming  squad?" 

"What  I  mean  is  that  we  should  work  together  ac- 
cording to  a  preconcerted  system.  We  should  not 
work  anyhow." 

"I  am  quite  at  sea,"  exclaimed  Miss  Elsie,  in  despair. 

"I  shall  make  my  plan  quite  clear  in  a  moment,  if 
you  are  patient,  Aunt  Elsie.  First  of  all,  we  should 
make  out  a  list  of  the  most  influential  booksellers' 
shops  and  department  stores  in  New  York.  Suppos- 
ing we  selected  ten.  We  should  then  visit  these  shops 
and  find  out  by  careful  inspection  and  inquiry  how 
many  of  them  did  not  have  Richard's  book  for  sale. 
Very  likely  none  of  them  would  have  more  than  two, 
or,  at  the  most,  three  copies  in  stock.  Many  would 
never  have  heard  of  the  book.  I  am  sure  of  this,  be- 
cause I  have  inquired  myself." 

"And  then?"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  becoming  interested. 

"I  can  make  it  perfectly  clear,  if  I  select  one  shop 

r  an  example.  Substantially  the  same  result  would 
happen  in  each  of  the  other  nine  we  should  select,  if 
we  are  diplomatic.  My  plan  cannot  fail." 

"Then  we  select  Brown's,  on  Union  Square,"  cried 
Miss  Ruth,  impatiently. 


"THE   LITTLE   BOOMING   SQUAD."  175 

"Brown's  will  do  very  well.  YOU  will  remember 
that  we  have  already  reconnoitred.  We  have  found 
out  that  Brown's  does  not  have  'By  the  Sweat  of  His 
Brow'  on  sale.  Very  well,  I  open  the  campaign." 

"In  other  words,  you  order  the  book,"  suggested 
Miss  Elsie. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!  I  go  to  the  head  clerk.  (We  are 
very  careful  to  go  to  the  same  clerk  in  every  instance — 
if  possible,  as  I  said,  the  head  clerk.)  'Have  you  a 
book  called  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  *Brow?'  I  ask.  The 
clerk  will  wrinkle  up  his  brow,  and  will  ask  for  the 
author.  'I  do  not  know  the  author,'  I  shall  say,  care- 
lessly  '  ' 

"Frances!"  exclaimed  Miss  Elsie,  shocked  beyond 
measure. 

"A  less  black  fib  will  answer  the  purpose  doubt- 
less quite  as  well,"  resumed  Frances,  coolly.  'I  have 
just  heard  the  book  mentioned,'  I  shall  continue,  'as 
dealing  rather  cleverly  with  the  social  questions  of  the 
day.  But  I  suppose  that  if  Brown's  has  not  the  book 
it  can  be  of  no  importance?'  'None  whatever/  the 
head  clerk  will  answer  superciliously.  'But  here  is 
the  latest  book  of  Bellamy  and  of  Henry  George.' 


176  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

'Oh,  no,  thank  you,'  I  shall  answer,  politely.  I  was 
struck  by  the  title,  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow.'  (I 
repeat  it  to  impress  it  on  his  mind.)  'Good  morning.'  " 

"And  then?"  asked  Miss  Ruth,  still  more  interested. 

"After  a  discreet  interval — perhaps  the  next  day — 
you  will  come  in,  Aunt  Ruth.  (What  we  must  be  very 
careful  to  do  is  to  avoid  suspicion.)  You  will  ask  to 
see  some  new  novels.  Of  course,  you  are  still  speak- 
ing to  the  head  clerk  at  Brown's.  Dick's  book  will 
not  yet  be  among  them.  You  will  have  picked  out  'In 
the  Sweep  of  the  Monsoon/  and  will  be  about  to  pay 
for  it,  when  Aunt  Elsie,  who  has  been  watching  you 
carefully  outside  the  shop " 

"Frances!"  cried  Miss  Elsie,  indignantly. 

But  Miss  Ruth  cried,  "Well?" 

" And  has  precisely  timed  her  entrance  to  this 

very  minute,  comes  bustling  into  the  shop,  greets  you, 
Aunt  Ruth,  merely  as  a  friend " 

"Frances!"  exclaimed  Miss  Elsie  again. 

" Greets  you  merely  as  a  friend,"  continued 

Frances,  firmly,  "sees  'In  the  Sweep  of  the  Monsoon' 
in  your  hand,  and  asks  you  with  tremendous  impres- 
siveness,  loud  enough  for  the  clerk  to  hear,  if  you 


"THE  LITTLE  BOOMING  SQUAD."  177 

have  read  that  wonderfully  clever  novel,  'By  the  Sweat 
of  His  Brow.'  You,  Aunt  Ruth,  will  say  'no.' " 

"Frances!"     It  was  Miss  Ruth's  turn  to  be  shocked. 

"Really,  Aunt  Ruth,  I  shall  never  finish  if  I  am  in- 
terrupted so." 

"And  what  shall  I  say  then?"  asked  Miss  Elsie,  fear- 
fully. 

"You  will  say,  'Oh,  you  must.  It  is  so  strong. 
Everybody  at  Mrs.  Van  Pelt's  luncheon  was  talking 
about  it  yesterday.  They  say  it  is  as  clever  as  any 
book  of  the  year.  Indeed,  it  is  the  book  of  the  year.' 
Then  you,  Aunt  Ruth,  will  say  to  the  clerk,  Then  let 
me  have  it  instead  of  this  book.'  And  you  will  put 
'In  the  Sweep  of  the  Monsoon'  back  on  the  table.  The 
clerk  is  really  very  sorry — this  time  he  is  really  so — 
can  he  get  the  book?  But  Aunt  Elsie  will  interrupt, 
'We  can  get  it  at  Smith's,  dear.'  (You  are  the  dear, 
of  course,  Aunt  Ruth — not  the  clerk.)  'I  saw  a  lot  of 
them  as  I  passed.' " 

"But  what  will  happen  then?"  demanded  Miss  Elsie, 
trembling  at  the  audacity  of  her  niece. 

"Then,"  continued  Frances,  confidently,  "Cousin 
Bob  may  come  in.  (It  will  be  nice  to  have  men,  be- 


1 78  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

cause  they  can  be  rude.  They  can  say  things  we 
cannot.)  'I  want  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow,'  Cousin 
Bob  will  cry.  'I'm  in  a  hurry,  too.'  (You  know  Bob 
has  such  a  manner  they  can't  snub  him)." 

"The  head  clerk  will  rub  his  hands  and  regret  ex- 
ceedingly. They  are  just  out  of  them.  Cousin  Bob 
will  be  angry.  He  may  even  say " 

"Frances,"  warned  Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  in  one 
breath." 

" — Anything  he  chooses  that  is  emphatic.  'What's 
the  matter  with  the  stores?'  Bob  will  cry.  'Do  you 
people  take  special  pains  to  never  have  the  books  any- 
one wants?  I  wish  you  would  get  it  for  me  at  once.' 
Then  the  clerk  will  send  a  boy  post-haste  to  Smith's  for 
the  book.  Now,  Aunt  Ruth,  can  you  guess  what  the 
head  clerk  will  do  after  Cousin  Bob  leaves  the  shop?" 

"It  is-  perfectly  clear,"  cried  Miss  Ruth  gleefully. 
"He  will  suggest  that  the  firm  buy  some  copies  of 
Richard's  book  at  once." 

"That  is  exactly  what  he  will  do,"  cried  Frances  in 
triumph.  "You  see  how  infallibly  my  way  must  work 
if  we  are  careful." 

"And  so  the  boom  is  started,"  joyfully  remarked 
Miss  Ruth. 


"THE  LITTLE  BOOMING  SQUAD."  179 

"Oh,  no,  not  yet,"  answered  Frances.  "The  man 
who  buys  the  books  for  the  firm  from  the  publishers 
will  never  have  heard  of  Dick's  book,  and  will  be  cau- 
tious about  buying  it.  He  will  order  only  two  copies 
at  the  most.  One  of  these  Cousin  Larry  will  buy.  We 
can  send  James  for  the  other.  Now  you  see,  I  can 
come  in  again  by  this  time  without  causing  the  least 
suspicion.  'Have  you  "By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow,"  in 
stock  yet?'  I  shall  ask.  This  time  the  clerk  will  be 
profuse  in  his  apologies.  He  will  absolutely  grovel  in 
his  servile  regret.  He  is  so  very  sorry.  They  have 
just  sold  the  last  copy.  I  shall  leave  the  shop  indig- 
nantly. I  shall  say  I  will  not  go  to  places  where  books 
thaf  every  one  is  reading  are  not  for  sale.  And  now 
what  will  the  clerk  do,  Aunt  Elsie?" 

"He  will  see  the  man  who  buys  for  the  firm  the 
books,  I  suppose." 

'Yes,  he  will  swear  at  him,  I  expect.  And  this  time 
Brown  will  order  a  dozen  copies  of  Dick's  book.  And 
he  will  not  hide  them  under  the  books  of  a  popular 
author.  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow'  will  be  popular  it- 
self now.  The  clerk  will  pile  them  one  on  top  of  an- 
other on  the  table  of  the  'Very  Latest  Books.'  There 


l8o  THE  TWO  WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

will  be  a  long  criticism  in  their  monthly  bulletin.  It 
will  be  recommended  as  absolutely  the  best  novel  of 
the  year,  dealing  with  the  social  questions." 

"And  now  surely  the  boom  is  started,"  cried  Miss 
Ruth,  drawing  in  a  long  breath. 

"Yes,  this  time  the  boom  is  really  started,"  repeated 
Frances  condescendingly.  "And,  Aunt  Ruth,  have 
you  noticed  how  many  copies  have  been  actually  pur- 
chased?" 

"Bob,  one;  Larry,  two;  James,  three.  Precisely 
three,  unless  you  purchased  one  yourself,  child." 

"No,  I  did  not  purchase  one.  I  was  angry  and  left 
the  shop.  Now  supposing  we  were  to  pursue  the  same 
method  in  fifteen  of  the  biggest  shops  in  New  York — 
the  small  shops  would  have  to  get  the  books  if  the  big 
shops  had  them — and  supposing  that  instead  of  buying 
three  books  we  bought  six  in  each  shop.  We  should 
start  the  boom  with  six  times  fifteen,  shouldn't  we?" 

"Ninety  books!"  cried  Miss  Elsie,  who  was  profi- 
cient in  arithmetic. 

Frances  nodded.  "And  if  each  book  cost  one  dollar 
and  fifty  cents,  Aunt  Elsie?" 

"The  total  would  be  one  hundred  and  thirty-five 
dollars." 


"THE   LITTLE    BOOMING  SQUAD."  l8l 

"Exactly.  One  hundred  and  thirty-five  dollars  to 
send  dear  old  Dick's  book  into  its  second  edition. 
And  this  other  elephant  has  cost  thousands." 

"But,  my  dear  Frances,"  exclaimed  Miss  Ruth, 
"there  is  one  great  objection.  Your  Aunt  Elsie  and 
myself  would  have  to  tell  so  many — ahem — " 

"Fibs?  Not  at  all,  Aunt  Ruth.  I  would  manage  the 
matter  so  cunningly  that  you  would  have  to  tell  none 
at  all.  Or  merely  the  very  whitest  ones.  The  reason 
I  have  told  so  many  this  afternoon  is  because  I  have 
not  thought  the  matter  all  out." 

"If  I  were  sure  it  were  quite  honest,"  faltered  Miss 
Elsie. 

"Honest,  Elsie!"  repeated  Miss  Ruth  angrily. 
"Please  let  us  be  reasonable,  sister.  If  we  choose  to 
buy  four  books  instead  of  one,  we  do  no  one  any 
harm,  I  suppose,  so  long  as  we  pay  for  the  books." 

"I  sincerely  hope  not,"  said  Miss  Elsie,  wavering. 
"But  we  tell  Richard,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  for  the  world,  Aunt  Elsie,"  cried  Frances  im- 
ploringly. "Oh,  not  for  the  world.  I  want  to  sur- 
prise the  dear  fellow." 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  "we  will  try  the  experi- 


1 82  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

ment.  It  certainly  is  very  dull  staying  here  with  no 
philanthropists.  I  have  always  been  so  occupied,  the 
time  drags  heavily.  But  this  pursuit  promises  to  be 
of  the  most  exciting  character.  And  if  the  philan- 
thropists in  their  cowardly  turpitude  refuse  to  come  to 
us,  we  will  go  to  them.  Let  them  stop  up  their  ears 
as  they  may,  we  will  speak  to  them  through  the  book 
of  dear  Richard.  At  the  same  time  we  will  help  him  to 
success.  Nor  will  we  stop  at  ninety  books.  If  it  is 
necessary,  we  will  buy  up  the  whole  edition  in  the  way 
you  have  suggested,  Frances.  But  that  book  shall 
succeed." 

"And  when,"  inquired  Miss  Elsie,  trembling  with 
delicious  excitement,  "does  the  boom  begin?" 

"This  very  afternon,"  cried  Miss  Ruth.  "We  will 
see  Bob  and  Larry  to-night.  And  Frances,  you  shall 
give  us  our  first  lesson.  You  must  pretend  to  be  the 
head  clerk,  and  Elsie  and  myself  will  ask  for  the  books 
as  you  have  suggested." 

"And  on  no  account  will  we  tell  Dick?"  pleaded 
Frances  earnestly. 

"Do  you  think  that  will  be  wise,  dear?"  Miss  Elsie 
asked  with  some  doubt. 


"THE  LITTLE  BOOMING  SQUAD."  183 

"Certainly  we  will  not  tell  Dick,"  answered  Miss 
Ruth  positively. 

"Who  comes  in  first,  Frances,  Elsie  or  myself? 
Really,  child,  you  are  the  greatest  girl.  Your  en- 
thusiasm is  contagious." 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Frances. 


184  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION. 

TEXTOR  was  breakfasting  very  late.  He  was  seated 
at  one  of  the  little  black  tables  in  the  shadow  of  the 
spire  of  Grace  Church.  The  tables  are  placed  out  on 
the  pavement,  hidden  from  the  surging  crowd  of  shop- 
pers on  Broadway  by  a  charming  hedge  of  ivy. 

He  had  finished  a  good  breakfast,  and  had  lighted  a 
very  good  cigar.  He  smoked  it  leisurely,  because 
when  smoked  it  would  be  a  signal  he  had  set  for  him- 
self to  turn  his  back  on  the  streets  he  loved  and  reso- 

< 
lutely  to  forget  that  he  had  ever  dreamed  dreams.    So 

he  smoked  his  cigar  as  slowly  as  he  possibly  could. 
He  tried  not  to  think  of  the  trunk  he  had  to  pack,  and 
of  the  journey  he  must  make  back  into  the  West, 
when  he  should  have  said  the  last  good-bye  to  Fran- 
ces. For  a  few  minutes,  at  least,  he  did  not  wish  to  re- 
member that  he  was  a  fool  and  a  failure — that  to  all 
necessary  purposes  he  was  to  play  the  old,  old  role  of 


TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION.  185 

the  prodigal  son,  because  if  he  had  not  actually  wasted 
his  time  and  substance,  his  father  believed  that  he  had 
done  so. 

He  felt  the  hardness  of  the  task  he  had  set  himself, 
but  he  tried  not  to  indulge  in  any  maudlin  sentiment 
of  self-pity.  At  least  he  had  worked  strenuously.  He 
had  not  drifted  with  the  tide.  He  had  struggled  des- 
perately to  accomplish  something  he  believed  was 
worth  while.  He  had  staked  a  good  deal  on  the  ven- 
ture. He  did  not  regret  that.  But  it  humiliated  him 
to  think  that  he  had  fallen  down  and  worshipped  a 
thing  he  had  fashioned  in  the  belief  that  it  was  gold, 
and  that  it  had  turned  out  apparently  to  be  clay.  Nat- 
urally it  was  not  pleasant  to  acknowledge  it.  But  it 
was  much  harder  that  Frances  should  have  to  ac- 
knowledge it  as  well.  She  believed  in  what  she  called 
his  literary  career  so  intensely  that  she  could  hardly 
help  feeling  disappointed  in  him,  if  he  abandoned  that 
career  too  easily. 

But  now  it  seemed  inevitable.  He  was  absolutely  at 
the  end  of  his  resources.  He  would  gain  nothing  by 
going  back  to  his  proletarian  existence  of  a  few  months 
previous.  Besides,  there  was  Frances  to  be  consid- 


1 86  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

ered.  When  he  had  purchased  his  ticket  to  Michigan, 
less  than  five  dollars  would  comprise  his  sole  wealth. 

The  cigar  almost  burned  his  fingers  now,  and  he 
tipped  the  waiter  and  pulled  himself  together  to  face 
the  future.  For  a  minute  his  eyes  lingered  enviously 
on  the  publishers'  Saturday  advertisements  in  a  paper 
his  waiter  was  reading.  Everybody  seemed  to  have 
succeeded  except  himself.  "A  Matter  of  Doubt"  was 
in  its  thirty-fifth  thousandth;  "The  Fool"  was  in  its 
seventh  edition;  "The  Son  of  His  Father"  had  been 
dramatized;  and " 

It  seemed  to  Textor  that  his  heart  had  stopped  beat- 
ing then.  The  advertisements  bobbed  up  and  down, 
and  the  type  looked  all  blurred.  Textor  stretched 
out  his  hand,  and  without  apology  snatched  the  paper 
from  the  stolid  German's  hand.  The  big  type  was 
plain  enough;  that  was  certain;  it  did  not  lie.  He  read 
the  announcement  in  a  dull  sort  of  way,  as  if  it  were 
the  book  of  some  one  else  rather  than  his  own: 

"Laman  &  Winslow  Announce 

the  third  edition  of   Richard  Bryce  Textor's   Great 
Sociological  Novel,  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow/ 
"This  novel  has  within  a  very  short  period  sprung 


TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION.  187 

into  extraordinary  prominence.  It  bids  fair  to  be  one 
of  the  great  books  of  the  year.  It  is  a  work  of  un- 
usual power  and  sincerity.  The  writer  has  himself 
lived  the  life  of  the  laboring  man,  that  his  book  may 
bear  the  impress  of  truth.  These  facts  should  guar- 
antee for  it  an  extensive  circulation.  For  sale  every- 
where, or  mailed  postpaid  on  the  receipt  of  price  by 
the  publishers.  $1.50,  cloth-bound." 

When  Textor  realized  that  this  simply  meant  that 
at  the  last  hour  fate  had  reprieved  him — had  declared 
him  not  to  be  a  fool  or  a  failure — a  great  wave  of  emo- 
tion seemed  to  sweep  over  him,  and  the  paper  shook 
in  his  hands.  He  did  not  dare  to  look  up  for  some 
moments.  When  he  did,  the  German  waiter  smiled 
at  him  respectfully,  and  asked  if  der  stocks  had  gone 
oop. 

"No,  waiter;  it's  not  the  stocks,"  replied  Textor. 
"But,  you  see,  I  have  written  a  book,  and  it  has  gone 
into  its  third  edition.  It — it's  been  a  surprise;  that's 
all."  Then  he  realized  what  an  ass  he  was  making 
of  himself  in  confiding  his  good  fortune  to  a  waiter, 
and  flushed  furiously.  "Er,  waiter,  I  think  I  forgot 
to  tip  you,  didn't  I?  Fine  morning,  eh,  waiter?  Sky 


1 88  THE  TWO   WHITE    ELEPHANTS. 

very  bright;  almost  like  spring.  Good-day,  waiter." 
And  Textor  rushed  off,  leaving  the  waiter  still  smiling 
at  the  half-dollar  that  lay  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

He  walked  up  Broadway  and  across  to  the  avenue 
to  his  publishers,  plunging  ahead  with  a  rustic's  dis- 
regard of  another's  rights  to  the  pavement.  At  every 
news-stand  he  bought  a  different  newspaper,  and  he 
read  the  announcement  of  the  third  edition  of  his  book 
over  and  over. 

At  the  publishers  he  was  literally  greeted  with  open 
arms.  Mr.  Laman  shook  both  his  hands  in  extrava- 
gant enthusiasm. 

"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been?"  he  shouted. 
"We  have  been  wondering  if  you  were  dead — left  the 
city?  been  sick?  Never  heard  of  such  brutal  indiffer- 
ence on  the  part  of  one  of  our  authors  before.  Two 
editions  in  a  week!  Remember,  I  discovered  you;  I 
believed  in  you  when  all  the  readers  turned  you  down. 
Don't  forget  that,  and  have  a  little  gratitude.  Now,  I 
want  your  next  book.  Do  you  hear?  I  want  your 
next  book.  "Johns  (this  to  the  treasurer),  make  out 
a  check  for  Mr.  Textor  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  on 
account  of  'By  the  Sweat,'  will  you?" 


TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION.  189 

Textor  found  this  adulation  very  sweet.  He  could 
only  shake  hands  mechanically,  and  stammer  out  his 
surprise  and  thanks.  The  check  for  one  hundred  and 
fifty  was  the  best  of  all.  It  was  a  very  small  check, 
even  less  than  he  had  paid  to  have  the  book  published, 
but  it  was  tangible  evidence  that  he  was  not  dreaming. 
So  he  thanked  the  publisher  effusively. 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Textor.  Wish  it  was  fifteen 
hundred.  No  one  wants  to  see  you  go  in  and  win 
more  than  we  do.  Your  suceess  is  our  success.  I 
believed  in  you — don't  forget  that.  So,  mind  you 
let  me  have  your  next  book;  that's  all.  What  have 
you  done  with  it?  Written  much  yet?  Don't  be  too 
particular  with  it.  If  'By  the  Sweat'  makes  the  hit 
it  promises,  we  can  sell  anything  with  your  name  on 
the  title-page.  But  what  a  time  it  took  for  your  book 
to  get  started!  But  that's  what  I  told  you.  Big  things 
go  slowly.  I  warned  you  not  to  give  up  too  soon." 

"And  when  did  it  begin  to  move?  I  supposed  it  to 
have  fallen  completely  flat.  I  haven't  looked  in  a 
bookseller's  window  for  three  weeks.  I  didn't  dare 
come  to  this  office." 

"I  couldn't  wire  or  write  j*>  you,  because  you  left 


IQO  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

no  address.  Let  me  see — when  did  the  boom  begin? 
To-day's  Saturday;  it  was  not  two  weeks  ago.  A  week 
ago  Tuesday  last — that's  the  time.  A  batch  of  your 
books  had  just  come  back  from  the  hotel  stands,  and 
I  was  telling  Winslow  what  a  dead  thing  your  book 
was.  (I  shall  never  pretend  to  know  anything  about 
the  book  business  again.)  I  remember  a  clerk  came 
in  from  Brown's  on  Union  Square  after  a  couple  of 
copies.  That  made  very  little  impression  at  the  time. 
But,  by  Jove,  sir!  before  two  days  were  over,  we  re- 
ceived an  order  for  a  dozen." 

"So  it  surprised  you?"  asked  Textor,  rolling  one  of 
the  publishers'  Henry  Clays  luxuriously  about  his 
mouth. 

"Naturally,  especially  when  I  remembered  that  they 
had  fought  shy  of  the  book  at  first.  But  the  remark- 
able thing  was  that  within  an  hour  Smith  had  given 
almost  the  identical  order  that  Brown  had.  That's 
the  way,  in  fact,  it's  gone  all  along  the  line.  Two  or 
three  of  the  department  stores  have  ordered  fifty 
copies.  There  isn't  a  place  of  any  account  in  the  city 
where  you  won't  find  your  book  prominently  displayed. 
They  are  in  every  window.  It's  a  miracle  you  didn't 
see  them." 


TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION.  191 

"I  wasn't  looking  for  them.  But  a  third  edition — is 
that  a  misprint?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir.  The  second  edition  I  fired  out  a 
week  ago  last  Friday;  but  only  five  hundred.  I  wasn't 
quite  sure  of  my  ground  then;  so  I  didn't  advertise  it 
again.  But  this  edition  is  fifteen  hundred.  Three  of 
our  traveling  men  are  off  with  special  orders  to  push 
your  book  for  all  it's  worth.  If  it  moves  in  other  cities 
as  it  has  in  New  York,  I  shall  get  out  another  edition 
of  two  thousand.  If  my  experience  goes  for  anything, 
we  shall  sell  fifteen  thousand  of  those  books." 

"Fifteen  thousand!"  Textor's  wildest  dream  was 
half  realized  then.  He  made  a  rapid  calculation — 
fifteen  thousand  copies  at  ten  per  cent.,  and  one  dollar 
and  fifty  cents  a  copy,  would  make  the  royalties 
amount  to  three  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars. 

"Now,  I  shall  want  your  picture,  Mr.  Textor.  You 
want  to  get  several  of  them  taken.  I  want  to  get  them 
into  the  magazines  and  newspapers.  I  can  use  them 
on  my  circulars.  You  want  to  have  a  freak  picture; 
as  a  street-cleaner,  would  be  tip-top;  something  odd, 
you  know.  Something  that  will  sell.  We  want  to  sell 


192  THE  TWO    WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

books.  We  mustn't  be  too  squeamish  as  to  the 
means." 

Then  the  publisher  poured  a  lot  of  clippings  from 
the  newspapers  into  Textor's  hand. 

"Here  are  your  notices.  Some  of  them  are  good. 
Many  of  them  are  pretty  rough.  But  I  like  an  ugly 
criticism;  it  arouses  interest;  it  sells  books.  We  can 
afford  to  have  our  feelings  hurt  some  if  we  get  the  cold 
cash,  eh?  I  want  you  to  take  a  few  lines  of  each  and 
to  fix  them  up  a  bit.  Then  I'll  have  a  plate  made  and 
put  it  in  front  of  the  title  page  of  the  next  edition — 
the  fourth." 

Textor  put  the  criticisms  in  his  pocket  and  prepared 
to  take  his  leave. 

"Now,  don't  forget,  I  want  your  next  book," 
shouted  the  publisher  after  him.  "I  want  you  to  prom- 
ise me  that,  eh?" 

The  novelist  smiled  happily  to  himself.  It  was  a 
novel  sensation  to  find  that  his  brain  had  a  certain 
market  value.  It  was  glorious.  As  to  promising  that 
Laman  should  have  his  next  book,  he  intended  to  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  If  the  first  book  was  going  to  be 
a  phenomenal  success,  he  would  get  a  larger  royalty 


TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION.  193 

on  the  second  book  if  he  were  patient.  So  he  did 
not  reply  to  the  publisher,  but  shut  the  door  softly 
after  him.  He  hadn't  reached  the  elevator,  however, 
before  an  office  boy  ran  after  him,  and  told  him  that 
Mr.  Laman  wished  to  see  him. 

"I  wanted  to  know  if  you  didn't  care  to  have  your 
check  cashed,  Mr.  Textor,"  said  the  publisher  ner- 
vously. "If  you  do,  the  boy  will  walk  over  to  Broad- 
way with  you  and  identify  you.  And,  er,  you  haven't 
said,  you  know,  whether  you  are  going  to  let  me  have 
that  next  book  or  not.  I  want  to  know  right  now  so 
that  I  can  lay  my  plans  for  advertising.  If  you  are  go- 
ing to  go  back  on  me,  after  I  have  helped  you  to  a 
little  success,  I  want  to  know  it.  Remember  that  I 
believed  in  you  first,  and  have  a  little  gratitude." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  let  you  have  it,  provided  that  our 
relations  are  perfectly  satisfactory  in  this  book,  Mr. 
Laman,"  replied  Textor,  somewhat  priggishly  and 
conceitedly. 

"You  mean  if  I  do  the  square  thing?  Of  course  I 
shall.  Johns,  make  out  another  check  for  Mr.  Textor 
for  a  hundred  on  account  of  his  next  book.  There, 
sir,  that's  a  sort  of  a  retainer.  Now  you've  got  to  let 


194  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

me  have  it.  I've  paid  you  for  it  in  advance.  Don't 
forget  that,  and  good-morning,  Mr.  Textor.  Glad  to 
see  you  at  any  time." 

The  author  of  "By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow"  felt 
so  extremely  important  that  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of 
the  shabby  office  boy  who  accompanied  him  to  the 
bank.  He  shook  his  head,  too,  at  the  check  for  a  hun- 
dred that  the  publisher  had  just  paid  him  for  his  next 
book.  He  was  afraid  that  he  had  been  rather  rash  in 
accepting  it.  In  a  few  weeks  all  the  publishers  of  New 
York  would  be  crawling  on  their  knees  to  him,  im- 
ploring him  for  manuscripts.  Yes,  no  doubt,  he  had 
been  rash. 

But  he  cashed  the  check  for  one  hundred,  and  in- 
sisted on  gold.  Then  he  dismissed  the  office  boy  with 
a  quarter  and  wondered  what  he  was  going  to  do  next. 
He  clinked  the  gold  about  in  his  pocket  with  a  mag- 
nificent carelessness.  He  had  had  greater  sums  of 
money  in  his  pockets  before  many  times,  but  he  had 
not  earned  them  himself — especially  by  writing  novels. 
The  impulse  was  on  him  to  spend  a  part  of  the  money. 
Only  that  could  make  it  real. 

But  he  remembered  that  there  was  one  who  had 


TEXTOR'S  THIRD  EDITION.  195 

been  longing  for  him  to  succeed.  He  must  share  his 
success  with  her.  What  delicious  enthusiasm  she 
would  display!  How  she  would  rejoice!  And  now  he 
could  see  her  father  again  and  demand  a  formal  en- 
gagement with  his  daughter.  He  could  see  him  with 
a  little  more  self-respect  this  time.  As  man  to  man. 
He  could  begin  to  think  of  marrying.  A  man  with  an 
income  of  five  thousand  a  year  in  plain  sight  can  afford 
to  marry.  He  forgot  that  he  had  only  two  hundred 
and  fifty  in  his  pocket,  and  that  one  hundred  of  that 
was  for  a  book  he  had  not  written.  But  an  hour  ago 
he  had  absolutely  nothing  but  five  dollars. 
He  took  the  next  train  to  Clifton  Hills. 


196  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  XVI.       . 

A  NOVELIST  UNMANNED. 

"I  WONDER,"  thought  Textor,  as  he  walked  rapidly 
from  the  station  to  Philanthropist  Hall,  "what  she  will 
say?  I  can  imagine  her  surprise — her  girlish  delight. 
I  shall  take  advantage  of  that  surprise.  I  shall  insist 
that  I  see  her  father  and  have  him  recognize  a  formal 
engagement.  I  shall  even  hint  that  she  tell  me  when 
she  will  marry  me.  I  can  certainly  do  that  without  be- 
ing unreasonable.  I  hope  I  shall  find  her  alone." 

He  did  find  her  alone.  She  was  in  a  hammock, 
swung  across  a  corner  of  the  piazza,  reading  for  the 
second  or  third  time  the  announcement  of  Textor's 
third  edition. 

As  she  saw  him  approaching  between  the  fir  trees, 
she  waved  the  paper  at  him. 

"Are  you  happy  now?"  she  called  out. 

"Very,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his.  "So 
you  have  seen  the  advertisement.  I  am  disappointed. 
I  hoped  to  surprise  you.  Isn't  it  glorious?" 


A  NOVELIST  UNMANNED.  197 

"Yes,  it  is  nice — very  jolly,"  answered  Frances 
comfortably.  "But  you  will  have  to  get  up  very  early 
in  the  morning  if  you  wish  to  surprise  me.  It's  hot, 
isn't  it?  And  did  you  walk  up  from  the  station? 

Textor  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  She  certainly  was 
not  in  the  least  enthusiastic.  She  was  even  cold  and 
indifferent.  He  supposed  that  she  would  show  more 
sympathy.  He  looked  at  her  a  little  resentfully. 

"How  grumpy  you  appear."  Frances  pushed  a  slip- 
per against  a  pillar  and  swung  herself  lazily.  "Con- 
sidering that  your  book  is  in  its  third  edition,  and  that 
within  the  past  few  days  it  has  sprung  into  extraordi- 
nary prominence — I  think  that  is  how  the  words  go — 
why,  I  expected  you  to  be  radiant." 

Frances,  don't."  Textor  was  really  hurt.  "I 
thought  you  told  me  no  one  cared  for  my  success  so 
much  as  yourself." 

"What  a  serious  old  boy  you  are.  Why,  of  course, 
I  care.  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  to  show  my 
interest?  Cheer?  Please  swing  me." 

He  looked  away  from  her,  and  swung  the  hammock 
for  a  few  moments  in  sulky  silence. 

"Well?"  Frances  looked  at  him  mockingly  from  un- 


198  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

der  her  veiled  eyelids.  "Do  you  want  me  to  cheer  or 
do  you  not?" 

"Frances."  He  sprung  to  his  feet  and  imprisoned 
her  hands  tightly.  "I  want  you  to  care,  dear.  That 
is  what  I  want." 

"Why,  I  do  care,  cried  Frances,  opening  her  eyes 
widely.  But  she  was  smiling.  Textor  thought  her 
not  half  serious  enough. 

"Don't  laugh,  Frances.  If  you  could  know  how 
I've  fought  for  this,  like  a  tiger — how  I've  almost 
prayed  for  it,  you  would  understand  why  I  take  this 
success  seriously — why,  I  want  you  to  be  serious.  For 
a  whole  year  it's  been  my  whole  life.  First,  because, 
however  worthless  it  might  be,  I  made  it — it  was  my 
own — it  was  myself.  Then,  because  I  wanted  a  little 
fame,  perhaps,  though  I  didn't  care  much  for  that. 
And  then  because  I  saw  that  money  only  could  help 
a  man  to  look  fearlessly  ahead — made  one  quite  a  man. 
But  afterwards,  Frances,  because  success  meant  not 
merely  silly  applause  or  a  few  dollars,  more  or  less, 
but  it  meant  you.  Can't  you  understand  that,  and  see 
why  I  want  you  to  care?  I  want  you  to  care,  I  say, 
as  well  as  myself." 


A  NOVELIST  UNMANNED.  199 

"I  do  care,"  she  almost  whispered,  earnestly.  "I  do 
care,  more  than  all  the  world." 

"If,"  continued  Textor  impetuously,  "the  publisher 
had  been  advertising  the  book  extravagantly  or  boom- 
ing it,  I  might  be  skeptical.  At  least  I  should  take 
less  credit  to  myself.  I  should  imagine  the  book  was 
selling  simply  because  it  was  pushed  so  persistently.  I 
should  wait  a  long  time  before  I  was  willing  to  be- 
lieve in  it.  But  that's  precisely  the  thing  that  com- 
forts me  so  inexpressibly,  Fan.  The  book  is  selling  on 
its  own  merits — on  its  merits  alone.  You  know  as 
well  as  myself  there  has  been  no  advertising,  no  de- 
ceptive booming  of  it.  It's  fought  its  way,  slowly  but 
surely.  It's  selling  simply  because  it  interests  people 
— I  hope  I'm  not  conceited  if  I  say  because  it's  worth 
buying.  The  people  have  found  it  out." 

Frances  looked  at  him  anxiously.  "Oh,  Dick;  I 
don't  like  to  see  you  too  hopeful,"  she  pleaded.  "Sup- 
posing it  doesn't  last." 

"Supposing!  Not  last!"  He  released  her  hand  and 
pushed  her  from  him  roughly.  "There  is  no  supposing, 
I  tell  you.  Do  you  think  I  am  a  vulgar  braggart? 
I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  I  didn't  suppose  you  would 


20O  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

doubt  my  word.  But  if  you  can't  believe  me,  go  to 
the  publisher  and  ask  him.  Or  if  you  want  more 
proofs,  look  at  these.  They  don't  lie." 

He  held  out  a  handful  of  gold  boastfully  towards 
her. 

"Did  the  publisher  pay  you  all  that  for  your  book?" 
she  asked.  The  money  fascinated  her.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  great  deal. 

"All  that!  Pooh,  that  is  a  mere  drop  in  the  bucket," 
he  retorted,  stung  by  her  incredulous  tone.  "Look 
here,  this  is  on  account  of  my  next  book." 

He  held  the  check  before  her  eyes,  but  in  such  a 
manner  that  she  could  not  read  how  small  the  amount 
was. 

"If  things  go  on  as  they've  begun,  and  the  publisher 
says  there  isn't  a  doubt  of  that,  I  shall  make  at  least 
three  thousand  off  this  book.  I  put  the  figures  at  about 
one-half  of  what  they  may  amount  to." 

Frances  clasped  her  hands  tightly  in  serious  alarm. 
She  had  been  afraid  that  he  would  be  excited  and  hope- 
ful. But  she  had  not  expected  he  would  be  so  ter- 
ribly excited,  so  extravagantly  hopeful.  She  had  ex- 
pected to  dampen  his  enthusiasm  a  little,  to  control  it, 


A  NOVELIST  UNMANNED.  2O1 

until  the  success  of  buying  up  the  first  edition  should 
be  demonstrated  beyond  a  doubt.  But  he  was  so  des- 
perately in  earnest — he  frightened  her.  She  longed  to 
warn  him — to  make  him  less  hopeful.  But  she  could 
not.  She  dared  not  tell  him  the  truth.  She  had  not 
the  courage  to  disappoint  him  so.  She  looked  at  him 
in  silence. 

"The  second  edition  went  like  that."  Textor 
snapped  his  thumb  and  finger  exultantly.  "But  the 
first  two  editions  were  merely  five  hundred  each.  This 
third  edition  is  fifteen  hundred.  If  it  moves  as  it  has 
begun — and  there's  no  reason  why  it  should  not — 
there  will  be  a  fourth  edition  in  a  week.  An  edition  of 
two  thousand.  So  far,  the  book  has  been  on  sale  only 
in  New  York.  Now  the  publisher  is  going  to  scatter  it 
broadcast  through  all  the  country." 

"But  if  it  shouldn't  succeed  so  well  in  other  cities?" 
"It  will.  It  must.  New  York  sets  the  pace  for  all 
things  literary  and  artistic.  Why,  Frances,  dear  girl, 
what  is  the  matter?  Why  is  it  that  you  have  believed 
in  me  when  all  things  were  black,  but  now,  when  for- 
tune smiles,  you  begin  to  doubt?  Why  is  it  that  when 
I  rush<up  here,  an  hour  after  I  hear  of  my  success,  SQ 


2O2  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

eager  for  your  congratulations  and  praise,  to  hear  you 
say  how  happy  you  are — I  find  you  cold  and  unmoved. 
Oh,  Fan;  I  thought  you  above  all  would  care." 

"Oh,  Dick,  dear  old  boy;  I  do  care — more  than  all 
the  wide  world — more  than  anybody  else  could  care." 

Tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Then  Frances,  my  own  girl,  you  know  what  this 
success  means  to  me.  As  I  said,  it  means  the  whole 
world  to  me — yourself.  I  can  go  to  your  father  now. 
I  can  tell  him  I  have  fulfilled  his  condition.  I  can  tell 
him  I  have  succeeded.  Frances,  you  must  know  what 
I  mean." 

"No,  no,  Dick.  Not  yet.  Please  not  yet.  Let's  be 
patient.  He  will  be  so  business-like.  He  will  ask  you 
about  everything — the  figures." 

Textor  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Wait!  Haven't  I  waited?  Wait  for  what,  in 
heaven's  name?  I  shall  wait  no  longer.  I  don't  care 
what  he  asks  me.  I  can  answer  him  with  the  figures 
you  seem  to  worry  about  so  much.  I'm  not  afraid  to 
tell  him  all  the  circumstances.  With  an  income  of 
three  thousand — " 

"Three  thousand!" 


A   NOVELIST   UNMANNED.  203 

Frances  gasped  hysterically.  She  held  on  to  the 
sides  of  the  hammock,  not  to  burst  into  a  wild  fit  of 
laughter.  It  was  cruel. 

"Yes,  three  thousand,"  he  answered  defiantly. 
''Aren't  you  willing  to  start  life  with  me  if  I  have  that 
amount?" 

"Yes,  yes,  dear  Dick.    With  nothing,  but — " 

"Then  why  can't  you  believe  in  me?"  he  asked 
angrily.  He  poured  a  stream  of  gold  from  hand  to 
hand.  Then  he  flipped  one  of  the  five  dollar  pieces  to 
the  gardener  who  was  working  at  his  flower  beds. 
"Drink  my  health,  John,"  he  cried. 

The  man  caught  the  coin  and  looked  at  it  doubt- 
fully. 

"Why,  it's  gold,  sir,"  he  said,  holding  it  up. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  Then  he  looked  at  Frances  and 
said  bitterly,  "I  don't  care  for  the  money  if  you  don't 
care  for  me." 

She  regarded  him  with  deep  disapproval. 

"You  act  like  a  foolish,  reckless  school-boy,"  she 
said  coldly.  "Not  like  a  man." 

"Oh,  I'm  a  fool.  I  know  it,  Frances."  Textor 
looked  at  her  miserably.  He  clenched  the  railing  of 


2O4  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

the  piazza  with  both  hands.  "But  Frances,  my  pre- 
cious girl,  what  is  it  that  has  come  between  us?  Don't 
you  care  for  me  any  more,  Fan?  Don't  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,  I  love  you,  Richard,"  she  said  simply,  and  held 
out  her  hands  to  him  imploringly  in  that  charming 
way  of  hers.  And  Textor,  regardless  of  the  apparently 
unconscious  gardener,  raised  them  to  his  lips  and 
kissed  them. 

Frances  felt  a  great  tenderness  for  him.  She  longed 
to  tell  him  everything — to  tell  him  the  whole  truth. 
She  had  never  dreamed  that  she  would  have  found  it 
so  hard  to  act  her  innocent  part.  His  earnestness 
made  it  very  hard  for  her.  She  was  afraid.  But  if  it 
was  for  his  good?  If  it  was  inevitable?" 

"Dick,"  she  said  softly,  lifting  up  her  troubled  little 
face  to  his  as  he  stooped  over  her,  "Dick,  would  you  be 
very  angry  if  I  told  you  something?" 

"No,  nothing  can  make  me  angry  with  you  if  you 
care  for  me,"  he  murmured.  "Nothing,  Frances." 

"Dear  old  Dick,  do  you  love  me  so  much?" 

"Yes.     So  much." 

"More  than  all  your  success,  Dick?" 

"Success  and  yourself  are  inseparable,  sweetheart," 


A   NOVELIST   UNMANNED.  2O$ 

"Then  Dick,  supposing  I  had  done  something  that 
you  thought  wasn't  wise,  but  if  I  thought  it  for  your 
good — if  I  thought  it  would  help  you,  and  if  it  really 
did  help  you,  perhaps,  but  if  it  humiliated  you — Dick, 
would  you  love  me  then?  Even  if  it  humiliated  you 
very  much?" 

The  words  seemed  to  choke  her.  She  caught  his 
hand  and  held  it  very  tightly,  as  if  some  physical 
terror  menaced  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Frances." 

"I  mean — I  mean — oh,  Dick,  I'm  so  wretched,  so 
very  wretched." 

"Then  never  mind,  dearest.  There,  cheer  up.  If 
you  love  me,  I  don't  mind  about  anything." 

"Are  you  sure?  Oh,  but  I  must  mind.  I  want  to 
tell  you.  I  did  it  for  your  good,  Dick." 

Again  he  said  uneasily,  "I  don't  really  know  what 
you  mean,  Frances.  I  wish  you  would  try  to  be  more 
clear." 

"I  will  tell  you  soon.  You  shall  understand  every- 
thing. I'm  sure  everything  will  be  all  right.  But  you 
must  be  patient.  You  mustn't  rely  too  much  on  this 
success.  It  may  be  only  temporary.  You  must  write 
another  book  very  soon/' 


206  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  said  Textor  irritably,  "You 
are  morbid,  Frances.  Are  you  not  well?  If  you  are 
hiding  anything  from  me  that  might  separate  us,  tell 
me." 

She  laughed  hysterically.  Her  ringers  played  ner- 
vously with  the  meshes  of  the  hammock.  She  ruffled 
his  hair. 

"What  a  silly  old  boy  it  is.  It  is  making  a  mountain 
out  of  a  molehill." 

"It  is  you  who  are  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole- 
hill. If  you  have  nothing  to  tell  me,  very  well.  If  you 
have,  then  in  heaven's  name  let's  have  done  with  it." 

He  frowned  down  at  her  and  tugged  at  his  mus- 
tache perplexedly. 

"There's  nothing  to  have  done  with,"  she  said,  her 
courage  failing  her  at  the  last  moment. 

She  rose  from  the  hammock,  and  pretended  to  ar- 
range her  hair.  But  her  ringers  trembled,  and  he 
could  see  the  color  in  her  face  die  away,  and  surge  up 
to  the  temples  again. 

"Don't  protest.  If  you  say  there's  nothing  you  are 
hiding  from  me,  why,  I'm  glad,  that's  all.  But  you 
seemed  so  troubled,  you  frightened  me.  Let's  find 
your  aunts." 


A   NOVELIST   UNMANNED.  2O? 

Frances  sank  into  one  of  the  big  rockers  and  cried 
softly. 

"Oh,  Dick,  I  wish  I  hadn't  been  so  foolish  as  to  have 
worried  you.  It  wasn't  necessary.  I  never  dreamed 
of  doing  it.  But  you  were  so  hopeful,  I  wished  not 
to  have  you  disappointed.  You  need  'never  have 
known.  I  intended  you  should  not  until  afterwards. 
I  am  afraid  it  may  make  you  unhappy — less  confident 
of  yourself.  But,  indeed  it  need  not.  We  did  it  to  help 
you — Aunt  Ruth,  Aunt  Elsie  and  I.  I  asked  them  to." 

She  stood  by  his  side  and  put  one  hand  beseechingly 
on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  beyond  her. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  huskily.  "Is — is  it  anything 
to  do  with  my  book?" 

"You  have  heard  me  say  so  often,  dear,  dear  old  boy, 
that  no  one  longed  for  you  to  succeed  more  than  my- 
self— no,  not  a  hundredth  part  as  much.  And  I 
thought,  oh,  if  I  could  only  help.  If  I  could  only  get 
people  to  read  it.  They  would  see  what  a  good  book 
it  is.  Then  I  thought  I  saw  a  way." 

"Go  on." 

"And  you  seemed  to  be  so  miserable  when  it  ap- 
parently had  failed,  Dick.  And  then  Aunt  Ruth  or 


208  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

Aunt  Elsie  half  suggested  the  way.  Oh,  Dick,  you 
aren't  angry,  are  you?" 

"You  are  not  clear,  Frances,"  he  said  in  an  un- 
moved voice.  "You  have  not  told  me  any  reason  why 
I  should  be  angry  yet." 

"And  so  Aunt  Ruth,  Aunt  Elsie  and  I — we 
planned" — 

"Well?" 

"You  needn't  be  so  serious,  Dick.  Really,  it's  noth- 
ing, but  Aunt  Ruth  wanted  to  buy  several  of  your 
books  to  have  them  put  in  the  libraries.  And  so  we 
ordered — we  bought  at  the  different  stores  a  number 
of  copies.  That's  all.  Really  I'm  very  nervous  to 
have  thought  so  much  of  it." 

"How  many  books  did  you  buy?"  he  asked  in  a 
strained  voice.  He  was  very  pale.  "A  hundred?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  a  hundred." 

"Two  hundred?" 

"Really,  Dick,  I  am  not  sure.  You  see  we — oh, 
Dick,  please  don't  be  angry." 

"I  asked  you  if  you  bought  two  hundred.  Tell  me 
the  truth,  Frances." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 


A  NOVELIST  UNMANNED.  209 

"Three  hundred?" 

"Perhaps,  but" — 

"In  other  words,"  he  said  very  slowly  and  very 
sternly,  "you  and  your  aunts  have  bought  up  the  whole 
of  the  first  edition." 

"Not  quite  all,  Dick."  She  looked  at  him  beseech- 
ingly. 

"Now  I  can  understand  why  you  were  not  more 
surprised  at  this  thing."  He  took  the  paper  contain- 
ing the  announcement  of  his  third  edition  from  the 
railing  and  tore  it  into  a  hundred  pieces.  "That's  how 
my  dreams  end — like  this.  I  have  not  succeeded  after 
all.  I  am  a  sham.  I  am  a  failure." 
.  He  groped  for  his  hat  on  the  chair  as  if  he  were 
half-blinded,  and  buttoned  up  his  coat  with  trembling 
hands. 

Frances  watched  him  silently.  Her  fingers  were 
locked  together.  But  he  did  not  look  at  her. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  should  be  glad  you  have  told  me 
the  truth.  But  it  stings." 

"Oh,  Dick,  please  don't  be  foolish,"  she  said  tear- 
fully. 

"Don't!     Don't  try  to  smooth  things  over.     Can't 


2IO  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

you  see  that  you  have  done  a  most  cruel  thing?  Can't 
you  see  that  it  was  a  most  dishonest  thing  to  do? 
You  should  have  thought  of  the  publisher  if  you 
couldn't  be  thoughtful  enough  to  see  the  consequences 
for  me.  He  is  spending  hundreds  of  dollars,  perhaps, 
to  advertise  and  push  a  book  for  which  after  all  there 
is  no  real  demand.  He  ought  to  be  told.  But,  by 
heaven,  I  have  been  humiliated  enough  already  in 
hearing  this.  I  shan't  tell  him.  As  for  myself,  I  say 
nothing.  But  it  wasn't  kindness.  It  was  folly.  I 
can't  face  your  father  after  this.  I  feel  like  a  boy  who 
has  been  cajoled  by  a  plaything.  It  meant  more  to  me 
than  that.  I  never  felt  so  small." 

He  spoke  in  a  dull,  monotonous  tone,  and  started  to 
walk  down  the  piazza  steps. 

"Oh,  Dick,  where  are  you  going?  You  are  cruel. 
We  only  did  it  because  we  hoped  it  might  help  you 
to  succeed.  It  may  yet.  If  you'd  only  be  patient." 

"If  I  am  very  patient,  perhaps  you  will  buy  up  an- 
other edition,"  he  said  tauntingly. 

"Dick,"  she  implored,  "we  aren't  going  to  part — 
not  like  this." 

"I  shall  go  to  the  West  to-morrow,"  he  answered 


A  NOVELIST  UNMANNED.  211 

in  a  cold  voice,  lifting  his  hat  formally.    "Good-after- 
noon.   My  regards  to  the  Misses  Fairfax." 

"But,  Dick,  you  aren't  really  in  earnest?"  she  said 
piteously. 

"I  am  afraid  it  was  all  a  fatal  mistake." 
He  turned  and  left  her,  and  she  watched  him  with- 
out moving  until  he  had  disappeared  behind  the  fir 
trees. 


2 12  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MISS  RUTH  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

FRANCES  was  still  standing  on  the  piazza.,  gazing  va- 
cantly at  the  fir  trees,  when  Miss  Ruth,  her  eyes  spark- 
ling with  excitement  and  pleasure,  stepped  out  of  the 
dining-room  through  the  French  window. 

"Frances,"  she  cried  gaily,  "are  we  not  magnificent 
business  people?  The  third  edition!  Fancy!  When 
will  dear  Richard  come,  I  wonder?  I  long  to  see  his 
radiant  face.  Really,  you  are  the  greatest  girl.  I 
shall  never  call  you  frivolous  again.  Nor  shall  I  per- 
mit Elsie  to  do  so.  The  third  edition!  In  so  short  a 
time.  Fancy!" 

She  held  the  paper  containing  the  announcement 
before  her  niece's  face,  and  let  it  float  to  the  wind. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it,  Aunt  Ruth."  Frances  put  it 
aside  gently. 

Miss  Ruth  looked  at  her  in  consternation. 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  it?" 


MISS   RUTH   TO  THE  RESCUE.  213 

"He  has  been  here,  Aunt  Ruth."  Frances  spoke 
wearily.  "He  says  it  was  all  a  mistake.  He  will  never 
care  for  me  again." 

"Come  here,  child.  Sit  on  auntie's  lap.  Now  tell 
me  all  about  it.  Not  care  for  you  again?  The  idea!" 

She  seated  herself  in  one  of  the  big  rockers,  and  took 
Frances  in  her  arms,  just  as  she  had  often  done  in 
years  gone  by  when  she  used  to  bribe  the  restless  little 
Frances  with  a  quarter,  if  she  would  only  sit  in  auntie's 
lap  five  minutes.  She  folded  her  arms  protectingly 
about  her  as  if  to  shield  her  from  trouble. 

"I  had  to  tell  him  everything,  Aunt  Ruth.  He 
compelled  me  to.  I  thought,  before  I  told  him,  that  he 
would  be  grateful.  But  he  was  dreadfully  angry.  His 
pride  was  so  hurt.  And  he  was  pale,  very  pale,  Aunt 
Ruth.  He  said  it  has  all  been  a  fatal  mistake.  He  will 
never  care  for  me  again." 

Miss  Ruth  patted  Frances  gently  on  the  back. 
"There,  there.  Is  he  angry,  child,  because  we  bought 
up  his  books?  Is  that  it,  child?" 

"Yes,  yes.  He  thought  the  book  was  selling  because 
it  was  a  good  book — because  it  was  worth  succeeding. 
Now  he  savs  he's  a  sham — a  failure." 


214  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Miss  Ruth  angrily.  "That 
is  nonsense,  Frances;  perfect  nonsense!" 

Frances  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"And  oh,  Aunt  Ruth,  he  says  it  was  actually  dis- 
honest. He  says  the  publisher  is  spending  a  great  deal 
of  money  under  a  false  impression.  He  is  spending 
money  to  advertise  a  book  for  which  there  is  no  real 
demand.  He  says  the  book  will  fall  flat  as  soon  as  this 
false  demand  shall  have  ceased." 

Again  Miss  Ruth  said,  "Nonsense!"  But  she  said  it 
less  decidedly. 

"He  insists  that  the  publisher  ought  to  be  told.  But 
he  has  been  too  humiliated  already  to  tell  him  himself. 
Aunt  Ruth,  do  you  suppose  it  is  our  duty  to  tell  him?" 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Miss  Ruth  for  the  third 
time.  But  she  said  it  very  faintly  indeed. 

Frances  sprang  to  her  feet  with  that  look  of  in- 
domitable determination  on  her  face  that  character- 
ized her  when  a  duty  was  to  be  performed. 

"If  we  have  to  do  it,"  she  cried,  "then  let  us  do  it  at 
once.  We  will  all  go.  Aunt  Elsie,  yourself,  and  I." 

"We  will  see  your  Aunt  Elsie,"  said  Miss  Ruth  in  a 
troubled  voice.  "She  has  a  more  delicate  perception  in 


MISS   RUTH  TO  THE  RESCUE.  21$ 

these  matters  than  myself.  She  saw  what  an  elephant 
this  house  would  be  on  our  hands.  She  warned  us 
against  buying  up  Richard's  books  without  telling  him 
first.  If  she  says  the  publisher  must  be  told,  we  will 
tell  him." 

It  was  a  very  troubled  faculty  meting,  this  last  meet- 
ing of  the  faculty  of  Philanthropist  Hall,  at  which  one 
was  absent.  But  the  conclusion  was  inevitable  accord- 
ing to  Miss  Elsie's  nicely-poised  conscience.  The  pub- 
lisher must  be  told  of  their  share  in  helping  the  sale  of 
the  book.  He  must  not  spend  dollars  under  a  false 
impression,  however  disagreeable  it  may  be  to  en- 
lighten him. 

So  the  next  morning  Miss  Ruth,  Miss  Elsie  and 
Frances,  sorrowfully,  and  in  great  apprehension,  filed 
into  the  private  office  of  the  senior  member  of  the 
firm  of  Laman  &  Winslow. 

He  received  them  deferentially,  somewhat  at  a  loss 
how  to  place  them. 

"An  author,  perhaps?"    He  bowed  at  Frances. 

"No,"  said  Frances,  blushing. 

"Ah!" 

He  rubbed  his  hands  and  lighted  a  cigar,  but  put  it 
back  on  his  desk  with  apologies. 


2l6  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

"Pray  smoke,  sir,"  said  Miss  Ruth  nervously. 

She  dimly  felt  that  the  soul  of  man  is  often  appeased 
by  a  good  cigar. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  the  publisher,  eyeing 
the  three  ladies  keenly,  and  wondering  what  in  the 
world  could  make  them  so  fidgety. 

"We  fear,  sir,  that  we  may  have  done  you  an  in- 
justice. If  so,  we  are  come  to  do  what  is  in  our  power 
to  atone  for  it.  At  least  we  hope  to  prevent  further 
misapprehension  in  the  future." 

"Thank  you.  That  is  very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure," 
said  Mr.  Laman,  wiping  his  eye-glasses  and  staring 
at  Miss  Ruth  in  great  perplexity. 

"You  published  about  three  months  ago  a  book 
called  'By  the  Sweat  of  his  Brow,'  sir." 

"We  did,"  cried  the  publisher  proudly.  "I  do  as- 
sure you,  madam,  I  am  proud  of  that  book.  I  re- 
gard the  author  as  a  special  protege  of  mine.  I  may 
say  that  I  discovered  him.  My  readers  all  rejected  his 
manuscript.  But  by  chance  I  read  it  myself.  I  be- 
lieved in  it.  I  still  believed  in  it  when  it  had  fallen 
flat.  And  now  that  it  promises  to  be  one  of  the  books 
of  the  year,  I  am  proud  to  say  that  my  confidence  is 


MISS   RUTH   TO  THE   RESCUE.  217 

more  than  justified.  Yes;  that  is  my  pet  book.  I  am 
very  proud  of  it,  I  do  assure  you,  madam." 

He  adjusted  his  glasses  and  looked  at  Miss  Ruth 
inquiringly. 

"My  sister  and  myself,  then,  have  shared  that  con- 
fidence with  you.  It  grieved  us  immeasurably  to  see 
that  the  book  at  first  was  not  appreciated  by  the  pub- 
lic. It  seemed  to  us  a  strong  book.  We  believed  in 
the  ideas  it  contained." 

"So  did  I,"  cried  the  publisher,  banging  his  fist  on 
the  table.  "They  are  right." 

"And  so,"  continued  Miss  Ruth,  a  faint  blush  on 
either  withered  cheek,  "we  wished  to  do  what  we  could 
to  spread  those  ideas.  And  so — and  so  we — and  so 
we — " 

Miss  Ruth  paused,  quite  unable  to  end  the  sentence. 
But  Miss  Elsie  continued  firmly: 

"And  so  we  purchased  a  great  many  copies,  sir." 

"Ah,  that's  the  way  to  show  you  believe  in  things. 
There's  no  doubt  of  that,  madam.  Money  talks." 

"In  fact,"  continued  Miss  Elsie,  timidly,  "several 
hundred." 

The  publisher  leaped  to  his  feet. 


2l8  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Several  hundred,  mam!    Not  of  the  jobbers? 

"No,  at  the  booksellers'  shops.  Practically  the  first 
edition,"  continued  Miss  Elsie  unflinchingly,  but  in  a 
very  faint  voice. 

The  publisher  looked  at  the  three  ladies,  very  much 
dazed  indeed. 

"The  first  edition!  At  the  stores!"  he  echoed. 
"Why  that  explains — " 

He  rang  the  bell  of  the  telephone  frantically. 

"Give  me  ion.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Stanley,  the 
printer.  Hello,  is  this  you,  Stanley?  Well,  how  many 
of  those  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brows'  have  you 
printed?  Have  you  begun  on  the  second  thousand 
yet?  No?  Good.  Then  stop  the  presses.  Yes,  that's 
what  I  said,  stop  the  presses.  Don't  print  another 
copy  until  you  hear  from  me.  There's  been  a  mis- 
take." 

Laman  then  called  up,  "The  New  Jersey  Bookbind- 
ing Concern." 

"How  many  copies  of  'By  the  Sweat  of  His  Brow' 
have  you  bound?  Five  hundred — eight  hundred? 
Eight  hundred,  did  you  say?  Well,  I  revoke  the  pre- 
vious order.  Suspend  all  work  on  the  book  till  you 


MISS   RUTH   TO   THE   RESCUE.  2 19 

hear  from  me  again.  There's  been  a  mistake.  I  shall 
explain  later." 

When  he  had  given  these  orders,  Laman  crunched 
up  in  his  hand  a  memoranda  that  lay  on  his  desk  for 
advertising.  Then  he  seated  himself  in  his  office  chair 
again,  and  wheeled  about  and  faced  the  three  fright- 
ened ladies. 

"There!"  he  said,  glaring  at  them. 

"It — it  is  fortunate  we  were  in  time,"  faltered  Miss 
Ruth. 

"Hump,  madam!  I  wish  you  could  have  made  up 
your  minds  to  have  been  a  few  days  more  in  time.  I 
may  lose  a  good  deal  of  money  if  the  book  is  selling 
simply  on  the  strength  of  your  boom.  Another  time 
you  decide  to  buy  up  an  edition  of  my  books  I  wish 
you  would  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  know  in  ad- 
vance. Good-morning,  ladies." 

He  turned  to  his  desk.    He  was  very  angry. 

"Mr.  Laman,"  Miss  Ruth  spoke  with  a  quiet  dig- 
nity, though  her  voice  trembled,  "we  are  sincerely 
sorry  that  we  have  made  a  mistake.  We  are  willing  to 
do  what  we  can  to  remedy  it.  Any  indebtedness  that 
may  be  incurred  through  our  indiscretion  shall 


22O  THE   TWO   WHITE    ELEPHANTS. 

promptly  be  cancelled  by  my  sister  and  myself.  Good- 
morning,  sir." 

The  publisher  had  been  slowly  wheeling  his  chair 
about,  so  that  he  was  now  facing  them. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  cried,  "that  you  are  will- 
ing to  pay  any  deficit  that  may  occur  because  you 
bought  up  that  first  edition?" 

Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  bowed. 

He  looked  at  them  in  astonishment. 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  be  seated  again.  I 
want  to  think." 

He  sat  with  his  chin  in  his  hand,  frowning  out  of 
the  window.  Presently  he  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  when  you  last  bought  any 
books  at  the  stores?" 

Miss  Ruth  looked  at  her  sister.  "It  was  two  weeks 
ago,  was  it  not,  Elsie?" 

Miss  Elsie  nodded  assent. 

"And  now  will  you  tell  me  just  how  you  managed 
to  boom  the  book  without  my  knowing  it?  You  will 
see  my  reason  for  asking  presently." 

Miss  Ruth  briefly  recounted  their  commercial  ad- 
venture. The  publisher  listened  with  the  greatest  at- 
tention. 


MISS    RUTH   TO   THE   RESCUE.  221 

When  Miss  Ruth  had  finished,  he  drummed  his  fin- 
gers on  his  desk.  Then  he  nibbled  at  a  pen.  At  last  he 
rose  and  rung  the  bell  of  the  telephone  once  more. 

"Now  I'm  going  to  show  you  how  unbusiness-like 
the  business  man  can  be  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"Give  me  1101  again,  please.  Is  this  Mr.  Stanley? 
Well,  will  you  ignore  what  I  just  said?  Yes,  are  you 
deaf? — ignore  it.  Go  ahead  with  the  printing.  Yes, 
print  the  whole  lot." 

The  same  orders  were  practically  given  to  the  book- 
binding company. 

Laman  flung  himself  triumphantly  in  the  chair,  and 
enjoyed  the  amazement  of  the  ladies  hugely. 

"Could  I  be  more  unbusiness-like  than  that?"  he 
demanded.  "But  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question:  You 
didn't  buy  up  all  the  books  in  Hartford,  did  you,  or  in 
Boston  or  Lynn?" 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Miss  Ruth,  hopefully. 
"Only  in  New  York." 

"Then  by  the  great  horn  spoon,  the  book  must  be 
selling  on  its  merits.  Look  here,  madam,  here  are 
orders  for  twenty  copies  at  Hartford,  and  here  are  re- 
orders from  Boston," 


222  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Then,"  expostulated  Miss  Elsie,  "why  did  you 
countermand  your  orders  at  the  printer  and  book- 
binder, sir?" 

"That's  a  sensible  question.  I  can't  give  as  sensible 
an  answer,  however.  The  fact  is,  my  crying  fault  in 
business  is  to  be  too  cautious.  I  want  the  earth  for 
nothing,  you  see.  I  can't  bear  to  take  chances.  So 
when  you  told  me  you  had  bought  up  the  whole  first 
edition,  instead  of  being  grateful  to  you  for  spending 
your  money  to  push  the  books  of  my  authors,  I  got 
scared  and  lost  my  head.  I  forgot  all  about  those  re- 
orders. I  was  afraid  I  was  going  to  lose  money.  Do 
you  see?  But  when  you,  madam" — he  bowed  to  Miss 
Ruth — "told  me  how  you  were  willing  to  pay  any 
losses  I  might  have  incurred,  I  saw  myself  in  a  truer 
light.  I'm  not  very  clear,  maybe.  But  that's  the  best 
I  know  how  to  say.  One  of  my  authors  could  put  it 
in  better  language.  And  suppose  that  this  boom  is 
going  to  fall  through?  Well,  you  are  willing  to  spend 
a  few  hundreds  of  dollars  without  any  reward,  and  I, 
who  would  certainly  get  something  and  believe  in  the 
ideas,  too,  am  afraid  to  spend  a  little,  eh?  No,  sir.  I 
believe  in  those  ideas.  They  are  right.  I'll  make  that 


MISS   RUTH   TO  THE   RESCUE.  223 

book  go  or  I'll  never  publish  another.  But  go  it 
shall." 

And  Laman  brought  his  great,  fat  fist  down  on  the 
table  with  so  tremendous  a  bang  that  the  paper-weight 
and  the  ink-stand  and  his  cigars  all  bobbed  up  and 
down  in  an  agitated  manner. 

"Mr.  Laman,  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  thank  you," 
said  Miss  Ruth,  smiling  through  happy  tears. 

"You  are  an  old  dear,"  said  Frances — but  not  quite 
aloud. 

"Thank  me,  madam?  It's  I  who  ought  to  thank 
you.  Believe  in  that  book  still.  And  I  hope  you'll  let 
me  apologize,  ladies,  if  I  have  been  rude." 

"Oh,  you  have  been  most  kind,"  chorused  Miss 
Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie. 

They  filed  out  of  the  office  again,  Laman  accom- 
panying them  to  the  elevator. 

"Call  at  any  time,"  said  the  publisher.  "It  will  be  as 
good  as  a  tonic  to  see  people  who  believe  in  my  books 
so  much  that  they  buy  up  whole  editions.  Good- 
morning,  ladies.  Good-morning." 

When  they  entered  the  carriage  that  was  standing 
outside  for  them,  Miss  Ruth  said  to  the  footman  in  a 
firm  voice: 


224  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"The  Judson,  53  Washington  Square,  South." 

Frances  blushed. 

"Why,  that's  Dick's — I  mean,  Mr.  Textor's  hotel." 

"It  is,"  said  Miss  Ruth  grimly.  "I  am  not  going  to 
let  you  silly  young  folks  be  miserable  if  an  old  woman 
can  help  it." 

And  in  spite  of  the  somewhat  hypocritical  protests  of 
Frances,  inquiries  were  made  of  the  clerk  for  Mr. 
Richard  Bryce  Textor. 

"He  has  left  within  an  hour,  madam,  for  the  West," 
answered  the  clerk. 

"And  his  address,  please?" 

"He  left  none,  madam." 

"Then  by  which  railroad  did  he  leave?  We  might 
catch  him." 

"I  couldn't  say,  madam." 


"  MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED  FRANCESS  AGAINE."   225 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
"MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED  FRANCESS  AGAINE." 

ALL  came.  Philanthropist  Hall  was  deserted.  Miss 
Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  had  gone  back  to  their  city  home, 
taking  Frances  with  them.  Still  no  word  came  from 
Textor. 

The  editions  of  his  book  crept  steadily  upwards  and 
upwards  to  the  ninth. 

There,  for  a  time,  the  sales  ceased.  Every  village 
library  from  Maine  to  California  had  a  thumbed  copy 
on  its  shelves.  Every  club  had  discussed  its  problems. 
But  just  when  Laman  was  talking  with  the  junior 
partner  of  the  advisability  of  getting  out  a  cheap  paper 
edition,  an  ex-prime  minister  of  England  sent  on  a 
postal  card  hearty  and  extravagant  praises  to  Textor 
in  care  of  his  publishers.  The  publisher  promptly  had 
its  contents  printed  in  every  newspaper  of  importance 
in  the  United  States  and  Canada;  and  the  editions 
started  with  new  life,  and  went  climbing  upward  again, 


226  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

till  the  fifteenth  edition  was  reached,  and  the  twenty- 
fifth  thousand  was  in  the  shop  windows.  Then,  at 
last,  the  newspapers  and  the  clubs  and  the  debating 
societies  wearied  of  discussing  "By  the  Sweat  of  his 
Brow,"  and  waited  for  its  author's  next  book. 

Not  a  day  passed  that  Laman  did  not  rejoice  and 
despair.  Pie  rejoiced  over  the  editions.  He  gloried 
over  his  discovery.  He  lorded  it  over  the  junior 
literary  partner.  He  rejoiced  that  he  had  paid  some- 
thing in  advance  to  insure  the  author's  next  book;  but 
he  despaired  daily  that  neither  author  nor  book  was 
forthcoming. 

Christmas  came.  The  publishers  had  made  out 
their  yearly  statement.  The  royalties  had  almost 
reached  the  figures  Textor  had  wildly  dreamed  of,  and 
still  he  did  not  come  to  claim  them. 

When  Textor  had  gone  back  to  his  home  in  Michi- 
gan, it  was  only  to  find  his  parents  about  to  leave  for 
an  indefinite  stay  abroad.  He  had  resolutely  refused 
to  accompany  them.  He  even  refused  his  father's 
parting  advice  to  take  up  novel-writing  as  his  profes- 
sion. He  was  sick  of  the  quill.  He  was  sick  of  cities. 
Even  the  little  inland  city  of  his  birthplace,  with  its 


"  MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED  FRANCESS  AGAINE."   22/ 

quiet  streets,  lined  with  poplar  and  maple  trees,  seemed 
to  him  artificial  and  stupid.  He  longed  for  the  wider 
freedom  of  the  skies  and  woods.  He  wanted  to  get 
away  from  the  world — to  bury  himself — to  forget 
things — for  a  while  at  least. 

His  father  had  called  him  a  fool.  But  he  had  given 
his  son  permission  to  look  after  his  lumbering  inter- 
ests in  the  Northern  Peninsular.  So  Textor  had 
camped  out  in  the  woods,  in  places  where  the  latest 
books  are  five  years  old,  where  literary  critics  are  un- 
heard of. 

He  led  a  wild,  free  life.  He  tramped  through  the 
great,  silent  forests  of  pine.  He  followed  streams  to 
their  source  after  trout.  He  camped  by  the  lakes,  fish- 
ing for  the  mighty  muscalonge.  He  stalked  deer,  and 
in  the  joy  of  living  and  killing  he  forgot  his  petty  ambi- 
tions. He  tried  to  forget  Frances.  But  he  thought  of 
her  when  the  camp  fire  flickered  at  the  dead  of  night, 
and  when  he  crouched  behind  logs  of  trees  for  the 
passing  deer. 

At  last  the  longing  for  her  became  unbearable.  He 
turned  his  face  toward  the  cities  again.  But  just 
when  he  was  on  the  border-land  of  civilization  he  was 
stricken  down  with  typhoid  fever  in  a  logging  camp. 


228  THE  TWO   WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

Late  in  November  they  carried  him,  weak  but  con- 
valescent, to  a  mining  town  where,  late  before  winter, 
three  thousand  miners  marched  menacingly  through 
the  streets,  and  where  at  last  the  militia  ruled  sternly 
in  martial  law. 

Textor  had  sworn  to  put  away  the  pen  forever,  when 
he  left  New  York.  But  his  old  interest  in  the  condi- 
tion of  the  masses  came  back  as  he  lived  with  the 
striking  miners,  as  he  gained  their  confidence,  ate  their 
food  and  entered  their  houses.  They  trusted  him,  and 
he  made  them  speeches  and  advised  them. 

When  the  miners  were  crushed  and  driven  back  by 
hunger,  Textor  withdrew  to  the  outskirts  of  the  vil- 
lage and  began  his  new  novel,  "The  Striker." 

He  knew  the  joy  of  living  indeed  now.  He  forgot 
the  world.  For  a  time  he  even  forgot  Frances.  Far 
into  each  night  he  wrote.  It  astonished  him  how 
easily.  But  the  struggles  in  writing  the  former  book 
helped  him.  He  did  not  have  to  tear  up  nearly  so 
many  pages. 

By  the  first  of  the  next  year  it  was  finished.  He 
knew  that  it  was  crude.  He  would  have  to  spend 
many  weeks  working  it  into  shape.  He  knew,  also, 


"  MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED  FRANCESS  AGAINE."   229 

that  the  story  was  there — a  grim,  dark  story.  He  be- 
lieved that  it  would  stir  the  hearts  of  men  and  women, 
because  his  own  heart  had  been  stirred  in  writing  it. 

When  at  last  it  was  really  finished,  and  he  had  writ- 
ten "End,"  he  awoke  one  morning  and  felt  homesick 
for  the  roar  of  traffic,  for  theaters,  and,  above  all,  for 
Frances. 

So  one  morning  he  leaped  joyously  out  of  bed,  and 
put  on  his  city  clothes  again,  and  bought  a  ticket  for 
New  York,  his  precious  manuscript  in  a  bag  that  never 
left  his  hand. 

He  was  fairly  in  the  heart  of  the  East  before  he  dis- 
covered that  "The  Striker"  was  not  to  make  him  fa- 
mous. He  was  famous  already. 

Laman  laughed  and  almost  cried  for  joy  over  his  ap- 
pearance among  the  living  again.  But  when  the  pub- 
lisher had  himself  taken  him  over  to  the  bank,  and 
had  deposited  a  check  with  four  figures  in  the  name  of 
Textor,  the  novelist  took  train  to  Clifton  Hills. 

No  footsteps  broke  the  smooth  surface  of  the  snow 
on  the  drive  to  the  Hall.  The  shutters  were  closed. 
The  place  was  silent  and  deserted.  Textor  had  not 
expected  really  to  find  them  there.  But  he  had  not 


23O  THE  TWO  WHITE  ELEPHANTS. 

thought  the  place  would  make  him  so  very  melan- 
choly. It  made  him  feel  more  than  that.  He  had 
played  the  part  of  a  fool  and  an  egotist.  He  had 
wounded  hw  in  his  selfish  pride,  and  every  dollar  of 
the  money  in  the  bank  really  belonged  to  her.  She 
had  created  the  first  demand  for  his  book.  And  he 
had  almost  hated  her  for  doing  it. 

He  walked  mournfully  around  the  piazza,  looking 
through  the  shutters.  And  presently  he  came  to  a 
blind  where  faintly,  yet  not  so  faintly  that  he  could  not 
decipher  the  words,  was  Hattie  Car's  startling  revela- 
tion to  the  world:  "Mister  Textore  kised  Francess." 

He  returned  to  the  city,  feeling  that  nothing  would 
be  worth  while  after  all,  unless  Frances  would  forgive 
him. 

He  dressed  himself  in  splendid  attire  the  next  morn- 
ing. Eliza,  who  one  year  ago  ogled  him  when  he  en- 
tered the  basement  kitchen  for  his  quarter  of  a  dollar, 
would  never  have  dared  to  ogle  this  magnificent  crea- 
ture. 

As  he  entered  Gramercy  Park  it  was  snowing, 
and  actually,  at  the  house  of  the  Misses  Fairfax,  there 
was  another  young  man  shoveling  the  snow  off  their 
door-steps. 


"  MISTER  TEXTORE  KlSED  FRANCESS  AGAlNE."    23! 

Textor  walked  almost  up  to  the  door.  Then  his 
courage  failed  him.  He  was  afraid  to  face  those  gen- 
tle old  ladies.  He  had  been  rude  and  unjust  to  them 
as  well  as  to  Frances. 

So  he  gave  the  astonished  young  man  who  was 
shoveling  the  snow  a  half  dollar — a  disreputable  young 
man,  who  did  not,  Textor  exultantly  noticed,  shovel 
the  snow  half  as  energetically  as  he  himself  had  done  a 
year  ago — and  walked  away,  finding  it  impossible  to 
call  that  day. 

But  not  so  hastily  that  quick  little  feet  did  not  over- 
take him,  that  a  little  hand  did  not  slip  delightedly 
in  his,  that  little  legs  did  not  dance  ecstatically  up  and 
down. 

Textor  took  her  in  his  arms.  He  could  have  cried 
over  her,  he  was  so  glad  to  see  the  Small  Adventuress. 
As  for  the  Small  Adventuress  herself,  she  cried  and 
laughed  at  the  same  time.  He  carried  her  back  to  the 
house.  The  door  was  wide  open;  and  Miss  Ruth  and 
Miss  Elsie  stood  there,  just  as  they  had  done  a  year 
ago;  and  they  both  also  cried  and  laughed  over  the 
prodigal's  return. 


232  THE  TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"I  found  him!  I  found  him!"  cried  the  Small  Ad- 
venturess, still  dancing  ecstatically  on  her  toes.  "I 
shall  hold  him  very  tight  so  that  he  cannot  run  away 
again." 

"Yes,  hold  him,  Hattie.  Hold  him  very,  very  tight," 
said  Miss  Ruth,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"I  shall  never  run  away  again,"  said  the  novelist,  in 
deep  content,  "now  that  you  have  forgiven  me — 
never." 

Then  he  told  them  what  had  happened  to  him  the 
past  few  months,  and  they  told  him  how  they  were 
going  to  turn  Philanthropist  Hall  into  a  hospital  for 
crippled  children. 

"And  so  we  have  both  got  rid  of  our  elephants," 
said  Textor,  smiling.  "And  have  you  heard  from  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Coxe  lately?" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Coxe  secured  a  divorce  at  last.  Mr. 
Coxe  was  advertised  at  Huber's  as  a  living  skeleton, 
so  Hattie  says.  But  Hattie's  imagination  is  still  so 
strong  that  we  receive  the  statement  with  a  grain  of 
salt." 

"But  he  is,"  persisted  the  Small  Adventuress,  stoutly. 
"I  felt  one  of  his  bones  and  said,  'How  do  you  do?' 
And  he  groaned." 


"  MISTER  TEXTORE  KISED  FRANCESS  AGAINE."   233 

Textor  did  not  dare  to  ask  about  Frances.  But 
Miss  Elsie  read  his  thoughts,  and  remarked  casually, 
"Frances  is  spending  the  day  with  us.  She  is  out 
shopping  just  at  present." 

"Here  she  is!  Here  she  is!"  cried  the  Small  Ad- 
venturess, dancing  as  usual  ecstatically  on  her  toes. 
She  waved  her  handkerchief  wildly  at  a  young  wo- 
man who  stepped  out  of  a  carriage,  wrapped  in  furs, 
her  arms  loaded  with  toys. 

Then  the  portieres  were  drawn  aside,  and  Frances 
came  in  swiftly,  just  as  she  had  the  day  Textor  first 
met  her  in  that  very  room. 

She  gave  a  little  glad  cry  and  dropped  all  the  pre- 
cious toys,  much  to  Hattie's  indignation.  Then  Tex- 
tor, regardless  of  the  presence  of  the  maiden  aunts, 
put  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her. 

Miss  Ruth  and  Miss  Elsie  glided  softly  from  the 
room,  Miss  Ruth  beckoning  fiercely  at  the  Small 
Adventuress,  who  did  not,  of  course,  understand  what 
it  was  Miss  Ruth  wanted,  and  hid  behind  a  rocking- 
chair  and  giggled  very,  very  softly,  with  her  pinafore 
in  her  mouth. 

"Then,  Frances,  sweetheart,  you  really  forgive  me 
for  being  so  cruel?"  asked  the  contrite  novelist. 


234  THE   TWO   WHITE   ELEPHANTS. 

"Oh,  Dick,  dear  old  boy,  there  is  nothing  whatever 
for  me  to  forgive.  But  I'm  very,  very  proud  that  you 
have  come  back  so  famous.  And  have  you  written 
anything  new  since  you  have  been  gone?" 

"My  new  novel,  'The  Striker,'  is  locked  up  in  the 
publisher's  safe  at  this  very  moment." 

"You'll  let  me  help  with  the  proofs,  won't  you?  And 
Dick,  aren't  you  very  glad  we  shan't  have  to  employ 
the  'little  booming  squad'  to  make  this  one  popular?" 

Hattie  listened  attentively  to  his  answer.  To  her 
surprise  it  was  not  expressed  in  words.  It  seemed  to 
amuse  her  very  much.  She  stuffed  her  pinafore  in  her 
mouth,  and  printed  these  two  sentences  on  the  back  of 
the  arm-chair  with  a  piece  of  chalk  she  dearly  prized: 

"Mister  Textore  Kised  Francess  Againe.  I  Saw 
Him  With  My  Own  Eyes." 

THE  END. 


